


we may sink and settle on the waves

by greenbriars



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Merpeople, Fluff, Happy Ending, M/M, One-Sided Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, POV Tom Riddle, Sane Tom Riddle, Sushi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-18
Updated: 2020-07-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:33:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23716000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greenbriars/pseuds/greenbriars
Summary: Stupid little Ginny Weasley wants to trade her Voice for legs so that she can pursue some human prince? Well then, far be it from Tom Riddle to get in her way.(Except he does.)A retelling ofThe Little Mermaid.It should be strange, moving to the absence of music, but Tom finds himself mesmerised by the gentle rocking motion, the smell of Harry's salt skin, the feeling of Harry's cheek against his own. It's smooth and rough at the same time, young skin and day-old stubble. He turns and drags the point of his nose against it, slow and exploratory. Harry's breath catches, and Tom thinks, idly, that he would like to taste that breath. His eyes slip closed. His nose traces the jut of Harry's jaw down to the heavy, unsteady pulse of his jugular, and he thinks aboutbitingit.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort
Comments: 116
Kudos: 687
Collections: Harry Potter





	1. Chapter 1

When Tom wakes, the Undersea is in an uproar over the missing girl. He can feel it, the disturbance in the currents, the tremble of tension in the waves. She's the youngest of a large, pureblooded family on the Sacred Twenty-Eight, and apparently too short-sighted to let anyone know where she's gone. 

All day long the news is all about her, her distraught family, her anxious friends, while Tom sips his tea and sorts through his potion ingredients. Through the eyes of his eels, he learns that just before she vanished, she had left a note.

A _note._

He rolls his eyes. No matter. His plan is already in motion.

#

 _My lord_ , Avery hisses as he circles him. The palace guards have come and gone, and despite Tom's annoyance he was polite to a fault. After all, it wouldn't do to be suspected right now. _What is the child doing now?_

"Let's find out, shall we?" Tom murmurs, even though he doesn't need to speak out loud for his eels to hear him. He just loves the taste of words on his tongue, relishes the reverberation in his throat.

Avery flicks his tail with excitement, sending a lazy spark through the water. He likes to see his master wield his unconventional magic.

Tom's Voice may be bound and kept from him, but he is not and has never been without means. He's learned to work around his muteness, to channel his raw magic through potions and divination and sheer force of will. If even children can do Voiceless magic, then Tom Riddle can—and will—harness it.

He propels himself to the highest shelf of his cave and hefts his largest scrying bowl over his shoulder. On his worktable he fills it with a heavy, misty solution of his own creation, and peers into it.

It seems the prince has taken Ginny Weasley out to see his little kingdom today, where she goggled at everything like a babe, still wet behind the ears. Idiot. She has spent almost every waking moment with the prince, and they are... friendly. It's hard for Tom to interpret emotions sometimes. They're on a boat now, and they're beaming at each other. He narrows his eyes.

Finally, she leans in for a kiss, bright-eyed and eager. She's so sure of herself, of her suit. She had been the same when she showed up at Tom's cave, on the outskirts bordering the Undersea, and asked to make a deal. Here, males and females of the species pursue each other with equal temerity. 

Tom wonders if she knows how much trouble she's wreaking just by sitting there on a boat with a human male.

And the prince leans away.

Tom sniggers. Just beneath the surface of the water, his other eels Rosier and Abraxas glare up at the bottom of the boat and swish their tails, impatient. They're itching to cause trouble, but they wouldn't be so foolish as to go against Tom's specific orders to keep their distance.

There are six days left.

#

Tom doesn't intend to get in her way, but long-distance divination gets tiring after a while, and he's _bored_. He'd much rather be close to the action.

Transformation spells are a complex branch of magic, but Tom has enough skill mixing potions that it's highly doable, if somewhat illicit. It's the reason the Weaslette had to come to him in the first place, and Tom isn't being fanciful when he says he is the best.

And now he has the Weasley girl's Voice in his possession, and though it's not as powerful or adept as his own, it's easy enough to bend to his will. He fingers the locket that rests on his chest.

The Voice chooses the undine, after all, and who wouldn't choose Tom?

The sun has gone down by the time he arrives at the shoreline, and begins to Sing.

All of their kind can Sing. It's their gift, a mark of who they are. An undine's song is used to identify another, assess the vicinity for threats, tell stories, deliver warnings. Perform magic. When Tom had his own Voice, he could control the very waves of the ocean. Very few undine can do that; as far as he knows, only one other can.

He heaves himself up onto a broad, flat rock, his tail making deep furrows in the sand. And he Sings. He weaves his tail into a pair of legs, weaves his scales into skin and hair. Ginny's Voice fights him for the barest second before he overpowers it, and when he opens his mouth the most otherworldly sound spills from his parted lips. A low hum permeates the beach, low enough to make the very sand quiver. The little sea creatures in the water go still; the seagulls cease their noise. And then above it, multi-layered, are a hundred silvery voices treading together—Tom's magic manifest in Song.

Where does music come from? The vocal cords? The lungs, the diaphragm? Or is it pure magic, as improbable as his gills or his tail?

He flexes his toes, arches his feet. What funny appendages humans have. Humans prefer to hide their bodies too, don't they? Strange creatures. Leg-coverings appear with a wave of his fingers, and he wrinkles his nose in distaste. He misses his scales already.

The prince hears the eerie, almost-familiar music, and finds him within the hour. He offers his hand, and Tom takes his first steps, stumbling only a little.

"Hello," the prince says, staring at him with eyes the colour of sea-glass. "My name is Harry Potter. What's yours?"

And, oh, Tom hadn't noticed it, under the cover of night. But standing together beneath the well-lit, soaring arches of the castle's entryway, he realises that the prince is _handsome_.

"You may call me Tom," he says, clasping their hands together.

#

Poor Ginny Weasley had turned and fled when she saw Tom standing by Harry's side in the morning. Her hand pressed to her mouth, as if she was sick, or stifling a cry.

Perhaps it isn't entirely fair to let Harry believe that Tom was the one who rescued him; Tom neither confirmed nor denied it when Harry pushed, and eventually Harry relented.

"Are you new to these parts?" he asks instead, and the corners of Tom's mouth lift, intentionally mysterious. He inclines his head.

"Yes, Your Highness."

Harry waves away the honorific. "None of that now. You rescued me, I think that gives you leave to call me by my name."

"Is that him?" asks the king, his gaze sharpening. James Potter is the spitting image of his son, although more weathered and presumably wiser. "What do you do, Tom?"

"I am a doctor, Your Majesty," Tom recites from his prepared backstory. "I have travelled here from a distant land to study what I can about medicine and healing."

"How lovely," the queen says. She is a genteel woman of good breeding, her voice soft and gentle, and Tom finds himself sitting straighter in her presence.

Harry quickly reclaims the conversation. "Then you must stay. We have some of the most excellent healers and the largest library for miles around. And I must get to know you better."

"I have some time. Harry."

Harry beams, pleased. "I will get the staff to prepare you a room next to mine. Then I must show you the town."

Oh, here we go again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welcome to my first tomarry fic!!! i finally completed a series i was working on and my brain said, g can have a little inspiration, as a treat.
> 
> in this au Voices are something like wands, and they channel and direct magic, manifested as Song. losing your Voice can be debilitating. the title is from 'the waves' by virginia woolf
> 
> i am open to concrit!


	2. Chapter 2

It's not that Tom isn't interested in Harry's little kingdom. It's just that Tom _isn't interested in Harry's little kingdom._

To him, one kingdom is much the same as another, and he's already seen some, if not most, of it secondhand.

But he agrees to be shown around anyway. He is a tourist, after all.

It is one of the last sweltering weeks of the summer, and by the time they leave the castle in a carriage the sun is high in the sky. Harry is wearing a loose cotton shirt open at the neck and trousers that are too tight. Tom had to use some imagination to magick a navy blue tunic and trousers out of thin air. Hopefully any anomalies can be put down to him being foreign.

The minute he steps out of the carriage he begins to sweat. Divination can't capture the sheer humidity of summer, the syrupy thickness of the air, way perspiration drips down his brow relentlessly, ruining the line of his ensemble and turning his cheeks ruddy. It's nearly unbearable, to be wet but in such a miserable, uncomfortable way. And when the sweat dries it leaves behind an itchy, sticky feeling, which is worse.

"You're from somewhere with more clement weather, I take it?" Harry asks curiously, eyeing the way Tom is ineffectually fanning himself. A servant quickly steps forward to shade him with an umbrella, which is a marginal improvement.

"Something like that," Tom says shortly, his temper hanging by a thread.

But despite his immense discomfort and initial disinterest, there are still small things, minute details that snag his interest. Here and there is a never-before-seen creature, a mind-boggling contraption, an improbable sight. Like the colours, so bright and strange and dizzying. More colours than he has ever seen underwater. And how _green_ everything is, lush and verdant and bursting with life, entirely unlike the cold blue-black palette of the Undersea. Tom tries not to let his intrigue show, brushing off all attempts at conversation and only daring to touch some of the items when Harry's back is turned.

There are street performers too. Fire-eaters and jugglers and men-on-stilts and old women who will read your palm and swindlers who will ask you for a penny and make you guess which of three bowls they have hidden it under. It's dazzling, and not in a wholly pleasant way. Harry steers him away from most of them.

And the _smells_. Warm bread, horse manure, the sweat of human bodies, the exuberant abundance of flowers growing wild and rambling along the streets. Tom sniffs the air, alight with curiosity in spite of himself. A riot of scents, all overlapping with one another, overpowering.

He wrinkles his nose. Harry catches sight of it, and laughs. He grabs his sleeve and pulls him away.

Knowing Harry, a boat ride should be next on the agenda.

Except when they reach the pier he doesn't steer Tom to any of the little rowboats in sight. Instead, he directs them to a ship.

The ship is like Harry—compact with sleek lines, and clearly powerful. Tom knows very little about boats, having only seen shipwrecks underwater, and while he finds those fascinating and guiltlessly plunders their depths for trinkets, never has he had the opportunity to see a proper, functioning boat up close. Never has he had the opportunity to _board_ one.

"We just mended it after that storm a few weeks ago; remember, the one that threw me off?"

_The one that led to us meeting?_

Tom smiles implacably, then turns his head away as if something on the boat has caught his attention. For all his ignorance, even he knows she's a beauty.

Eventually, Harry holds out his hand. "Shall we?"

Tom hesitates for the barest second before he allows himself to be guided onto the wooden plank that slopes up to the deck. His companion's palm is calloused and slightly sweaty, and Tom feels a frisson of excitement rush through him.

The sea. The open waters. They call to him.

The first thing Tom notices is the sheer width of that deck. It's easily twice the size of his cave, and there's a sharp smell that Tom deduces is fresh paint. The wooden surface gleams under the sun, and Tom crosses it quickly to the hull, which is sturdy and impressive.

"What a marvellous thing this is."

The ship starts with a loud rumble and a jerk that nearly causes Tom to lose his balance. Harry throws out a broad hand to steady him, chuckling, his eyes dancing. He's so... merry. Is he like this all the time? Tom can count on one hand the number of times he's laughed since he lost his Voice, and yet here he is, offering up a grateful smile in return.

It's disconcerting.

To distract himself he grips the railing harder and stares out into the sea. Harry is shouting something to one of the crew, and then he leaves Tom's side to man the steering wheel. He's in his element here, with his sleeves rolled up as he addresses every crew-member by name, effortlessly stepping around the maelstrom of activity.

Softly, he Sings, an imperceptible little overtone hum, and watches the waves directly beneath him tremble against the current. Ginny's Voice isn't powerful enough for more. The briny scent of the ocean fills his nose. He imagines diving beneath the waves to the unseen, unknown society below. The society he intends to preside over, once all is said and done.

"What is that locket that you wear?"

Harry's back. Tom closes his fingers around his locket, possessive, then forces himself to relax. "It belonged to my ancestor. He was of noble blood."

He doesn't mention that the line has since fallen out of favour, but he suspects Harry will probably infer it, given what he knows about Tom's "occupation".

"What does the S stand for?"

"Slytherin."

"That is unlike any noble name I have ever heard," Harry muses. He turns back to the sea, and Tom takes a moment to appreciate his handsome profile, his regal bearing. Then his spine curves into a slouch, casual and lazy. "You are from far away indeed."

"Indeed," Tom agrees, before deftly changing the subject to grill Harry about engines and navigating at sea using the stars.

#

When they return to the palace, Harry decides to give him the royal tour. The grounds are lush and sprawling, the interior splendid and tastefully arranged. Harry's knowledge of his place of birth is haphazard at best, littered with stories of his youthful escapades—"as if you don't still behave like that," Tom retorts, and Harry flushes—and fragments of history. Most interesting to Tom is the various additions to the castle across its history, as each new ruler was influenced by a new style or school of thought.

But only one room in particular holds any true interest to him.

"And this," Harry says, stopping in front of two great double doors, "is the library."

Two servants push the mahogany doors, and they swing open on well-oiled hinges.

Tom doesn't gasp, but it's a near thing.

The ceiling soars high above them, held up by bookshelves stacked back-to-back with books as far as the eye can see. The air is alive with dust motes, floating in the light that filters in from the enormous windows. In the centre there are arm chairs crowded around a low table, which is piled high with books. Glass display cases simultaneously protect and show off some signed first editions. He steps forward, inhaling deeply the scent of paper and leather and glue.

This is what Tom has always treasured above all else.

Knowledge. Information.

He wasn't lying when he said he was keen to learn all he can. Everything he knows, everything he's accomplished, started out from a book at one point or another. He trails his fingers reverently down the aged, well-loved spines. He could stay here for days and never leave.

Harry's soft laugh breaks him from his daze. "You look just like Hermione when she first saw this. She's the daughter of the royal dentist and a bit of a bookworm herself."

Book _worm_. What a funny word.

"Hermione is your friend?" he asks, guarded and unexpectedly possessive. After all, what chance could Harry have to cross paths with someone like that, when he seems to spend as much time as he can at sea? "How did you make her acquaintance?"

Harry smiles, guileless and too glib for Tom to ascertain his truthfulness. "We fought a troll together."

#

When they are done—and Tom personally thinks they could have spent even more time in the library—it's well past suppertime. Harry brings him to the kitchens, where the cooks are only too happy to feed them both up.

Tom eats something called a pheasant, which is a winged creature, probably some cousin of the gull. He also drinks something called mead. It's sweet and floral, and he rolls it around his mouth with interest.

Harry is given a treacle tart by the chef, accompanied by a look of fond exasperation. "A real sweet tooth, that one," she says.

Eventually Harry bids him goodnight and they part ways on the landing outside their rooms.

It is there that Ginny Weasley corners him after Harry has departed. She's making a hissing noise through her clenched teeth, like a feline that's been tossed into water.

Tom smiles at her coolly, showing just a flash of teeth. "Hello, little Weasley. Don't think I've forgotten about you. I'm merely watching the proceedings of our deal... from a much better vantage point. It's all perfectly... above board, I assure you."

She mimes a threatening gesture and then glares at him to convey just what she thinks of his assurance. She knows as well as he does that just because something is legal doesn't mean it's fair, but Tom never agreed to play fair. By entertaining him, Harry has been out of the palace all day. Out of Ginny's reach.

He grins. Oh, how wonderful it feels to have _power_ again, to not be the Voiceless one. His smile widens, becomes knife-edged and toothsome, but Ginny refuses to be cowed. She tilts her chin up, almost as if she's daring him. Little idiot.

He leans in close and murmurs, "Bit hard to kiss someone when they're not spending all their time with you, isn't it?"

Her glower becomes downright murderous. He straightens, chuckling.

"Now, if you'll excuse me."

#

The next day, Harry throws his hands up and dramatically exclaims, "I feel like I've been sitting around all day! Let's go out and do something. Maybe with the hounds! Who wants to come?"

Never mind that it's only breakfast and just the previous day they had sailed so far out that from his ship his kingdom was barely larger than a speck in the distance. Tom rolls his eyes, but his mouth curves in amusement. Harry catches it and his grin widens.

"Pass," Tom says, bored. Today he intends to explore the library, and romping around in the dirt with some slobbering, four-legged creatures is not for him.

But Ginny Weasley flings her hand in the air and waves it around, shamelessly eager, which makes Harry chuckle. He stands, and from his position Tom can see how his riding breeches hug his rear.

"Alright! We'll see you after, Tom," he says, and strides out of the dining hall on muscular legs.

Ginny smirks smugly at him, before she follows the prince out, hot on his heels.

Tom scowls into his bowl.

#

He can see them perfectly from his reading nook on the south side of the castle.

Harry is tossing a ball to Padfoot, his favourite hunting hound, and Ginny, for all that she's only had legs for four days, is gamely participating, tripping and getting up with barely a care for her grass-stained knees. Her reflexes are surprisingly quick. Perhaps she played an underwater sport.

Beyond the glass of the window, it's another violently sunny day. The sky is an impeccable, cloudless azure, and a seagull circles over the little trio. She's getting her blue dress all dirty and rumpled, her hem dragging in the mud, but neither she nor Harry seems to care. There's a healthy flush to her cheeks, and he's cheering her on, emerald eyes merry and alive.

Tom bites the inside of his cheek so hard he tastes blood.

This won't do.

#

After that, Tom is careful not to turn any of Harry's invites down. It's tricky, takes a bit of careful manoeuvring, but eventually he's able to turn things to his advantage.

The problem is that Harry likes sports, and games, and exercise. He hunts and fences and loves a good tourney, prefers running to walking, and Tom never was particularly athletic, even when he had full use of his tail. He's abysmal at everything Harry begs him to try his hand at, until.

Until they end up at the archery range.

"This isn't really my favourite," Harry admits. "It requires too much standing still and breathing. The master says I'm only passable at it."

Harry shows him how the bow works, and then teaches Tom how to sight. He adjusts Tom's stance, stands back, and then adjusts it again. The heat seems to spread out from where Harry's pressed against him. He's warm everywhere now, and the target in his sights suddenly seems sharper, closer, _clearer_.

He barely registers the _twang_ of the arrow being released. It races through the air like a comet, powerful and deadly.

And hits the target spot-on.

Harry lets out a low whistle. "You're a natural," he says, peeling himself away from Tom.

It shouldn't be surprising; the undine are a warlike species, and in school they all had to learn the basics of both close and ranged combat. Needless to say, Tom excelled at it.

Horseback riding, too, is something that Tom is a quick study at.

Riding land-horses is very similar to riding sea-horses; you just have to hold on tight, keep a firm hold on the reins, and show your animal you mean business.

Better still, it means the animal does most of the work.

Even better still, Ginny Weasley is afraid of horses.

They're tall, terrifying beasts, and the ones in the palace are clearly quality, with their fierce eyes and strong hooves. But Tom loves their velvety noses and seal-slick pelts. He runs his hands over the ebony hide of a spirited gelding, and glares it into submission.

He needs Harry's help to get atop the horse, and then to check on all the straps and buckles and make sure the saddle is adequate. It doesn't occur to him until later that this is far from a prince's job, but Harry had done it without batting an eyelash.

"We had jousting tourneys earlier in the summer," Harry says, pulling the reins so that his warhorse turns, flicking its ears impatiently. He swings up onto the saddle with the ease of long practice.

"Jousting?"

Harry gives him a quick rundown of the term. Apparently, jousting is a sport where two humans wielding blunted sticks—"Lances, Tom, they're called lances,"—charge at each other on horseback.

"At full speed?"

"Yes."

"Until your opponent falls off?"

Harry laughs. "It doesn't have to be as severe as that. Breaking your own lance on their body or shield would suffice."

Tom looks at him askance.

"But we won't do that today. I don't feel like getting into a full suit of armour in this weather. But maybe we could try something with wooden swords? And no charging."

Tom shrugs, and Harry calls for a servant to fetch them some of the practice swords.

There's some skill involved in sword-fighting, Tom can tell. A fair amount of quick thinking and strategy goes into it, and Tom warms up to it very quickly, quickly enough to give Harry a run for his money, to pose a proper challenge. Their swords clash in the hazy summer heat with satisfying sounds.

By the end of it they're both sweating, having worked their horses into a froth. Tom's arm is tender, and he can tell that by tomorrow it will be sore beyond measure, but Harry is laughing, his teeth flashing white and even against his tanned skin. 

"It's strange," Harry is saying, still breathing hard, "But you're really good—abnormally good—at anything that doesn't require your legs."

#

They dismount and grab towels and goblets of water. It's close to dinnertime, and Tom stops by the kitchens to refill his goblet. One of the servants could fetch it for him, but he doesn't know the names of anything yet, so he thinks it best to go himself.

The kitchens are easy enough to find, located at the back of the castle, on the ground floor. Tom tails an unsuspecting serving girl and follows his nose to the aged wooden door. It swings open at the lightest touch.

The first thing he sees when he steps through the humid threshold is a sea bream, skewered on a stick, roasting over an open fire.

"What are you doing!" he exclaims, hurrying over. The heat gets more oppressive, beading his forehead with sweat, and but Tom ignores it, shouldering past the serving staff impolitely.

"Sir?" the chef queries, startled.

"You're ruining it!" he says. He snatches the skewer away from the man, inspecting it with dismay. Already the fish has begun to char on the outside, its flesh white where it should be translucent, and a strange smell emanates from it.

"Do you not roast fish where you're from, then?" comes a voice at his shoulder. It's Harry, his locks still dark-wet from his bath. "How do you eat them?"

 _Why, you just grab it and bite it before it can wriggle away_ , Tom nearly says, before it occurs to him that that might be seen as extremely unusual and perhaps even a little alarming to these humans.

Harry is still waiting for an answer.

"Raw," he grits out eventually, and watches as the cook jerks away with a revolted look on her face.

"Raw?"

"Yes." _Also alive,_ he doesn't add.

And then, completely unexpectedly, Harry says, "Interesting."

"Interesting?" he snaps, angry at himself for exposing something so personal.

"Yes. I've heard of some cultures that eat raw fish, cultures from the far east... Are you from the far east?"

"No."

"Yeah, you don't look like any of the paintings I've seen of them. They eat their raw seafood over a grain and topped with a grated root, did you know that?"

"I did not."

"Hmm." Harry taps his chin, as Tom guiltily returns the skewer to the chef. The servants are all staring, and some are starting to whisper. His face flushes angrily, and he storms out without getting his drink. He has made enough of a fool of himself for one afternoon.

#

One of serving girls draws Tom a bath, and when he dismisses her she scurries away. His mood is still poor after the spectacle he made in the kitchens.

He lowers himself into the steaming water, still surly, and dunks his head in.

Being submerged improves his temper somewhat. Gills sprout along his neck, flaring subtly, and he takes a deep breath. His senses have sharpened, and he can taste every mineral and trace contaminant in the water. The bathwater has been boiled and filtered somehow; it's too clean, unnervingly so. He wants to go back to the beach, but there hasn't been time for it.

_Maybe he could ask Harry to take him out to sea again... Would he risk blowing his cover if they went for a swim?_

He trails his hand through the water, little ripples arcing out from the movement. Then, he murmurs a spell, and the water stills. He begins to Sing, and the reflection of the bathroom disappears, replaced by the sharp, sleek face of his eels.

"How are things in the Undersea?" he asks.

"Master," Rosier hisses. His expression could almost be surprised.

"Yes. The Weasley family?"

"Still distraught, but they have told themselves that the girl promised to send word in a week, and to give her a chance to do so."

"Have they stopped searching then?"

"They have not. They, and the Order, continue to search."

At the mention of the Order, Tom feels his mood darken further. Even with Ginny Weasley's voice humming gently against his collarbone, Tom remembers what it felt like to lose his Voice. The pain of it, like someone had reached into his chest and torn his heart out. He had kept trying to reach for it, after, like a phantom limb, and for the first few months it was as good as having his magic stolen, too. And every time he tried to utter a spell and failed it was like experiencing the slow, corrupting fallout of a nuclear explosion. How he had mourned, how he had _raged_... and then rage gave way to cold calculation, to plotting and vows of revenge... He had never felt so lost or helpless or furious in his life.

He collects himself. "Even the old man?"

"Yes."

"Has he come to my caves?"

"Yesterday, but the wards stopped him."

"They won't for long though." He scowls.

So Tom has some leeway while the search for the girl continues. But not much before someone starts to wonder where he is.

#

Tom means to go to bed, truly he does. It's been a long day, and he's exhausted, and yet he finds his feet carrying him to the library, as if he's drawn there on some otherworldly urge.

"I thought I'd find you here. What are you doing up so late?"

Tom rubs his eyes, looking up. Harry stands framed by the doorway, holding a lamp. His robe is wrapped around him—Tom can see the disturbance in the fabric where Harry pulled it close—and his hair is a more tousled mess than usual. He yawns.

Around him are scattered an assortment of tomes, from scientific journals to architecture manuals to fairytales. Tom has spent years discounting humans and their accomplishments, and yet the candlelight has grown dim because he has been reading voraciously, for hours it seems, and lost track of time.

"Your kind do marvellous things with fire," he murmurs, closing his eyes against the diagrams starting to swim before him. "Cleansing, cauterisation."

"My kind?"

Tom curses his slip of the tongue. "It's slang for 'people' where I'm from," he says, thinking quickly.

"Oh. Then what do your... kind... use?"

He thinks of fins and tails wrapped in poultices after tribal skirmishes. "Herbal remedies, mostly. Water-based."

"Water-based," Harry echoes, plainly bewildered. "That reminds me, I made an appointment with the palace Healer for you tomorrow morning. Her name's Pomfrey. You can ask her all about using fire to... what? Cauterise?"

"Thank you."

Harry seems to take the thanks as invitation to come closer, and he crosses the room, yawning. Along the way, he tops up the fuel from the lamp. "You're so tall," he complains. "Move over."

Tom retracts his legs, which were sprawled out across the couch, and Harry comes to sit beside him. "Aren't you sleepy?"

"I'll go to bed in a bit."

"Then I'll stay with you a while." He leans back against the reading couch, slumping a little against Tom. He smells like the sea, and unconsciously Tom leans closer to take a deeper breath, his eyes slipping closed at the familiar scent. Warmth traces the line where their bodies meet, and he suddenly finds that breathing on land requires more focus than he gave it credit for. His gills never gave him such trouble.

Harry picks up the nearest book.

"Uh, Tom?"

"Mmm."

"Why do you have our accounts with you?" Harry squints blearily as he flips through the pages, filled with rows and rows of tiny handwriting.

"Ah, yes," Tom says, setting aside a book on political philosophy and historical governance. "I was planning to bring this up with you over breakfast tomorrow, but I suppose now's as good a time as any. Someone's skimming."

"What?"

"Yes." Tom straightens, pulling the accounts book so that it sits half on Harry's lap and half on his. He dog-eared a few pages earlier for easy reference, trailing his fingers down the rows until he finds what he's looking for. He taps the page.

"You see here and here? These numbers don't make sense. I don't know much about the prices of steel piles, but why are they different each time? And why the need for so much piling? I thought in construction, you only do that at the beginning." Tom flips through the architectural manuals. "These can't be right."

"You can't be serious. How can you be so sure?"

"I'm not. You'll have to check with someone more knowledgeable than I. But this row of numbers here—get me that red ink, won't you?—don't tie either. The discrepancies aren't major, but they consistently appear—here, here and here. Three separate years, three separate counties. It's hardly noticeable unless you're specifically looking out for it, but it adds up. I think someone's stealing from your kingdom's coffers."

#

Harry has barely any time for Tom the next day. After double-checking that Tom's discoveries still made sense in the sobering light of morning, he had disappeared after breakfast with his council of advisors and the royal treasurer.

Tom is free to spend the entire day in the library, but he very nearly wastes it with his restlessness. He's antsy, tapping his feet against the floor, his mind drifting to the rooms down below over and over again. Books sit abandoned beside him, and his finger has been tucked into this page for long minutes, unmoving.

The only comfort is that Harry has no time for the Weaslette either, who wanders the grounds looking forlorn.

He gets up and begins to wander the castle. He only has three more days left on land, and if he can't read then he might as well make the most of it in other ways.

He heads first to the kitchens.

The staff bow respectfully to him at first, wary of the new stranger that the prince has taken such a shine to. Possibly they suspect he is nobility of a sort, because of his well-made attire and the heavy silver locket around his throat.

There are spells to charm, to beguile, to coerce and cajole. Tom prefers to do things the old-fashioned way.

There he wheedles some cake and tea and information out of one of the more unguarded serving girls, and then the rest are quick to succumb to his charms; apparently, flattery and seduction work in much the same way no matter where you go.

They don't know much, however, only that the king and the prince have been in session with the council the whole day. There are rumours though, and Tom is willing to listen to all of them, even the outlandish ones, to gain some insight into the politics of court.

After he has eaten—and heard—his fill, he heads outdoors. He steers clear of the kennels, where he spies the little Weaslette playing with one of the younger hounds and flirting with the boy who tends to the hounds—Dean Thomas, who seems to have recently had an unfortunate encounter with a seagull.

The sight puts Tom in rather high spirits by the time he reaches the stables. The stablehands have their own grapevine, and Tom gets one of them talking about the proper technique for grooming a horse—choosing the right curry comb is key—before slipping in his questions.

In this way he passes a fairly fruitful afternoon.

As he re-enters the castle he tosses an apple into the air and catches in. When he bites into it, he finds it sweet and juicy and a little tart. He hums with pleasure.

"Ah, Tom," calls out a soft, demure voice.

Tom turns to see Lily Potter standing beneath the chandelier of the foyer. Her deep-red hair is piled up on top of her head, where a crown rests. She is accompanied by one of her handmaidens.

"My lady," he says, bowing as best as he is able. She makes her way towards him at a graceful, sedate pace.

"Please rise. My apologies on behalf of my son; it seems he will not be able to accompany you today."

"It's no matter," Tom says, awkward and despising it.

"Perhaps not, but allow me to entertain you this afternoon. I trust you haven't taken tea?"

"No, Your Majesty."

"Then please join me in the parlour."

There is no way for Tom to refuse. 

#

"Is it not to your liking?" Lily Potter asks. They are in the sun-drenched parlour, a spacious, airy room with tall windows. It's bursting with floral arrangements, and in a corner stands a musical instrument with black and white keys.

"Do you play?" the queen had asked when she caught Tom looking at it.

"No, ma'am."

"Oh? You have the fingers for it," she remarked, and Tom peered at his long, tapered fingers, wondering how in the world she had arrived at that conclusion.

Tom realises he hasn't replied to her question. "Not at all, Your Majesty," he hurries to say. "The food is very good."

Tom hesitates. How to explain that he is entirely unfamiliar with the manners and customs of this place? Up till now he has been discreetly copying the behaviour of others, but if it's anything like being in Undersea's polite society, it's probably just as complicated.

"Then what is it, Tom?"

In a split second, Tom decides to throw caution to the wind.

"Your Majesty," he begins carefully. "You may have heard from your son that my ancestor was one of the nobility. Unfortunately, my father abandoned us before I was born and my mother passed away not long after."

The queen sets her teacup back in its saucer as her mouth falls open in a soft 'o' of grief. "You're an orphan?"

He affects a suitably forlorn moue, casting his eyes downwards. "Yes, ma'am. I'm afraid I have not the proper upbringing to take tea with Your Majesty and I hope you will forgive me for any missteps."

"Oh, Tom." She reaches across the table and covers his hand with hers. It takes a supreme effort not to pull his hand away. Tom does not like to be touched. Instead, he turns his palm over so that he can squeeze her hand in a show of gratitude. "I apologise if I made you uncomfortable."

"Please do not apologise, Your Majesty. It is an honour and a privilege."

He can already see Lily Potter's eyes—so like her son's—softening as she warms up towards him. People do so love a tragic figure. She pats his hand gently, and Tom forces himself to inject some watery emotion into his smile. What a long way a few pretty words can go.

After that, conversation moves a little more smoothly, as the queen tries to steer clear from any more awkward topics. Tom lets his guard down enough to eat, although he takes only small bites and small sips. The scones are very good, although he finds the macarons a tad sweet.

Presently, there is a ruckus at the door, and he and the queen look up to see Harry stride in before the steward can announce him.

"Oh, food," Harry exclaims, quickening his steps when the smell of fresh pastries wafts towards him. He looks tired and hungry, and there is ink on his fingers.

The queen smacks his hand away when he reaches for a scone. "Sit _down_ ," she orders.

With a dramatic, put-upon sight, Harry drags a chair over, much to the consternation of the staff who would prefer to do it for him. The queen rolls her eyes, too used to her son's antics, and pushes a delicate porcelain plate towards him.

Harry shovels an entire sandwich into his mouth, heedless of his mother's fond exasperation. At least he chews with his mouth close. Tom's lips twitch.

Something warm brushes his knuckles, and Tom reflexively pulls back before he realizes it's just Harry's hand. He relaxes then, and Harry's hand brushes the back of his fingers again. Fingers curl around his, brief and surprisingly sweet, but they slide away before Tom can respond.

Tom's eyes skip across the table. Harry is talking animatedly to his mother and not looking at him, but the back of his neck is pink as if sunburned.

It makes something in Tom's chest curl up, pleased and purring.

#

Harry disappears back into the throne room not five minutes after he appeared. By the end of the day, the news of some minor duke or barrel or marquee being on trial for embezzlement has permeated the entire castle. It's all anyone can talk about, but when Harry doesn't join them for dinner, Tom goes to seek him out.

"Your Highness," he says, knocking on the door to Harry's rooms, feeling ridiculous. He hasn't called Harry by his proper title since the morning they met.

"Harry," he tries again, irritable, and when no answer is forthcoming, he tries the door handle. It depresses, and the door swings opens.

Harry is lying face-down on his bed.

"What are you doing!" Tom exclaims, hurrying over. Humans needs oxygen to breathe, and surely this cannot be—

"Trying to suffocate myself," Harry replies, muffled.

"Because some lord took some of your gold?" Humans and their obsession with some shiny metal from the ground. He compresses his lips around a laugh and turns Harry over so that the prince can see him raise an unimpressed eyebrow. He folds his arms.

Suddenly Harry reaches out, eel-quick, and gives a swift tug to Tom's shirt. Tom follows quickly, lest his clothes tear, but only rests one knee on the bed, unsure of the propriety. Then when Harry tugs again, he allows himself to lay down beside him.

Harry's hand slides down his arm and finds his hand. His palm is calloused from years of sword-fighting and there is a pillow-crease on his right cheek. Tom stares hard at a nonexistent point on the ceiling, a fluttering in his throat. He coughs to clear it.

Quietly, Harry says, "It's more than just some lord embezzling. This incident opens up a whole host of questions. Why him? Where is the money going? Father suspects it's part of a larger plot to destabilise Godric's Hollow. We have much investigating to do before we get to the bottom of this."

Tom lets the words sit in the air between them and thinks for the first time that he's glad he hasn't had a chance to go into politics. The Undersea Wizengamot is likely much the same, although no one seems to have the nerve the challenge the old coot at its head.

"You might want to consider looking into the heads of certain districts, like Wiltshire," he says at last. "The servants talk, as you know, and they say the Malfoys have been doing better than they should be."

Harry turns his head towards him. "How do you—never mind. I'll mention it to Father tomorrow. He's very grateful to you for catching it, even if he hasn't had the time to thank you personally."

"There's no need. Anyone with a keen eye and some knowledge of accounting could have done it."

"And a healthy dose of paranoia, I suppose," Harry teases, but it sounds tired, and Tom tells him as much.

Then he reaches in his pocket and, with a little Voiceless magic, pulls a syrupy treacle tart out of the air.

Harry's eyes go wide with surprise and pleasure. "You saved me dessert?"

Tom didn't _create_ it out of nothing; no, there just happened to be one cooling on the counter in the kitchens. But he nods.

Harry reaches out eagerly, sitting up. He peels back the waxed paper covering and dives into it enthusiastically. Eventually he comes back up for air, still chewing.

He says, "Today has been... not great."

Spoiled little prince, Tom thinks, but with none of his usual rancor. If he could have power by doing as little as simply being born... Bitterly, he casts his thoughts back to his pathetic, cowardly father, whose noble blood didn't stop him from abandoning his wife and son. Or his weak, powerless mother, who died shortly after.

"I don't really want to be king," Harry confesses quietly. "I want to make something of my own, something of myself, not just inherit something from my father, who inherited it from his father, and so on. Do you know what I mean?"

"Not really, no." Power is power, and if it can be inherited, acquired, stolen, then by all means.

"It's like this: haven't _you_ ever done something all by yourself?"

Tom furrows his brow. "I suppose," he acquiesces. His magic, his potions practice, all of it he trained and built from the ground up, without even the use of his Voice.

"Then why would you give that up for something someone else has?"

Because it was never supposed to be that way.

Tom could have been born into nobility. He could have at least been born into _love_ , but so many things in his life had conspired against him. His parentage, the Undersea's unfair, hateful restrictions against his own, unconventional magic, Dumbledore...

He had to struggle to make himself known, clawing his way up the ranks without blood or name to back him up. Only the strength of his Voice. There's no way Harry could understand. 

But there's no harm in humouring him. "Perhaps this someone else has done a better job than you?"

"Someone, do a better job than you?" Harry bumps his shoulder against his, grinning. "I find that hard to believe."

Tom's mouth quirks into a smile. "But we are talking about you. What are _you_ loathe to give up?" 

"Sailing." Harry huffs a sigh. "My crew is loyal to me, and our ship is the fastest there is on the sea. We could do so much: explore, research, protect. I don't want to have to sit on a throne and listen to advisors all day."

Tom hums thoughtfully. "Well, you have a while to go before you ascend to the throne."

Harry flops down across Tom's lap, startling him. His hands spasm, but Harry doesn't notice.

"That's what they tell me," he says, sullen. "As if I will get it out of my system in the next few years and settle down."

Tom hesitates, then slides his fingers into that mess of dark hair. It's surprisingly soft, and springy to the touch. "Perhaps you will," he murmurs. "Perhaps you won't. But by then you will be king, and you will be able to decide what is best not just for your kingdom but for yourself."

Harry cracks open a sea-glass eye, and suddenly smiles. It's slightly heart-stopping. "Thanks, Tom."

He shuts it again, and Tom wants to say more. Something about Harry's desire to _research, explore, protect,_ resonated with him, almost seemed to Sing in his chest. But Harry looks like he's in dire need of comfort, so instead he just resumes carding his fingers through his hair.

Two days left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> can you tell i got all my knowledge about jousting from wiki? 
> 
> i'm a whole week late and for that i apologise. also if you haven't noticed, the chapter count has gone up for pacing reasons and also to even out the word count. in the next chapter we’ll finally see some Action! Romance! i’ve just completed it (just editing now) and i've already started on the final chapter. i am currently also experimenting with a werewolf/vampire tomarry au which should be up tomorrow
> 
> you may find me on [tumblr](https://greenbriars.tumblr.com), if you would like to scream about tomarry some more


	3. Chapter 3

Harry finds him in the library on the afternoon of Tom's second-last day on land. The chat with Madam Pomfrey had given him much to think about, and she had referred him to a number of texts he had overlooked. The slanting rays of sunlight illuminate the pages of one such tome, which Tom sets aside in favour of greeting his companion. 

"I'm thinking of hosting a celebration," he announces, looking expectantly up at Tom through a lace of dark lashes.

"Oh?"

"On my ship. I'd be honoured if you'd come."

"Whatever for?"

"Well, you're the guest-of-honour. You've been here a week, you've saved the kingdom from financial ruin—" Tom scoffs—"and the ladies at court have been pestering me to introduce you. There'll be dancing."

"Dancing isn't for people like me," Tom says, carefully couching his statement so that Harry will think he means _for commoners_. As far as Harry is concerned, Tom is a visiting doctor with a medicinal practice; nothing more, nothing less.

"Then I'll teach you."

Without warning Harry hauls him upright. His warm hand finds the curve of his waist, and Tom feels the touch through his jacket and shirt and skin. His other hand comes up to grip Tom's, and Tom's chest clenches.

"This is the starting position," he says, and then abruptly sweeps away to place a record on the turntable, leaving Tom feeling oddly cold.

It's strange to enjoy another's touch so much. The undine are not physically affectionate, and Tom even less so than most of them. Still, Harry's presence seems to come with incessant bodily contact, and Tom... is not averse.

But before he can brood further, Harry is back in his arms, taking up the same starting position. "And-a-one, and-a-two, and—"

Harry leads. Tom's footwork is naturally atrocious; he trips and stumbles, clinging on to Harry for balance, for dignity, for dear life, his fingernails digging in viciously with every misstep as Harry pulls him along.

Harry laughs. "You're trying too hard. Just let the music _carry_ you."

"Carry you," Tom says, scornfully, and then deliberately treads on Harry's foot extra-hard.

It gets gradually more tolerable, if only because waltzes are repetitive by nature and Tom learns to read the cues from Harry's body. His coordination on the field seems to translate easily enough to the ballroom. Loath as he is to admit it, it does help to let the music guide his movements. Harry's chest presses against his. Eventually they're sweeping across the room, spinning circles around the armchairs.

"At this rate you can only dance with me," Harry says, cheeky and not looking remotely put-out by the prospect. "Do you think you could stand to learn something more complicated?"

"Absolutely not," Tom says.

They make a few more turns, and then Harry says, casually, "It will get cold soon."

The non-sequitur throws him. "Yes," he says, even though he knows little about weather on the surface.

"Will you be staying until then?" 

At Tom's silence, he barrels on. "In the winter we have the most marvellous Christmas markets, with mulled wine and salted, spiced meats. There'll likely be snow, and everything will be white and glorious. We can go sledding and when the lake ices over I can teach you to skate on it. The cook will carve up a glorious turkey for us, and there will be venison and whole roast for the table."

Tom hesitates in the face of Harry's blatant eagerness. His first instinct is to lie. His intent had been to just leave once the contract was done, with none the wiser. He'd leave no trace of his existence, and the Potters would eventually forget him. Besides, he hasn't the apparel to stay until winter.

But he's so _tempted_ to tell the truth. It's the more painful route, but the thought of Harry showing up at his bedroom and finding him missing, _vanished_ , is... surprisingly unpleasant. It wouldn't be fair to him, and since when has Tom cared about fairness? It's as if somewhere along the way his plans have changed without his knowledge.

It scares him.

"Fine, I will be your guest-of-honour," he says, to avoid answering.

Harry blinks his startling eyes, caught off-guard. "Excellent!" he says. He beams, successfully diverted. "Only..."

"Yes?" _What now?_

"Only it's a shame that it's so last-minute. Is there anyone you want to invite?"

Tom stares at him. "Invite? Who could I possibly invite?"

"Oh, I don't know. Some of the ladies—and lords—were wondering about you."

"What's there to wonder about? I am a healer and your guest."

When it becomes clear Tom won't let this go, Harry looks away. He elaborates, "Because you're, you know."

"I _don't_ know."

"Must you really make me say it?" His cheeks dust pink, and Tom feels saliva pool in his mouth as Harry runs his hand through his already untidy hair. "You know, with your broad shoulders and, and shiny hair. You're very tall."

"Am I?" he says, amused. Does _Harry_ think he's tall and has shiny hair? Tom knows he's not an entirely unappealing specimen amongst the undine, but amongst humans? Tom has little to no frame of reference for what passes for societal standards of beauty. Harry remains fixated on a point just above his shoulder, his blush deepening. 

Something hot and possessive unfurls in Tom's chest. He wants to lick it.

"So none of them... catch your eye?"

Tom scoffs. "No."

"Alright." His shoulders relax, then he suddenly glares at Tom accusingly. A jolt of want flashes through him. "You just wanted me to compliment you, didn't you? You're so vain."

Tom laughs, and then abruptly stops as he treads on Harry's foot for the fourth time.

"Okay, okay, enough dancing for now I think," his partner says hurriedly when he sees his scowl, just as the recording runs its course. The needle lifts off the turntable, which continues to spin. It's a repetitive, strangely soothing sound. They slow down in tandem, but don't let go of each other, swaying side by side.

It should be strange, moving to the absence of music, but Tom finds himself mesmerised by the gentle rocking motion, the smell of Harry's salt skin, the scrape of Harry's cheek against his own. It's smooth and rough at the same time, young skin and day-old stubble. He turns and drags the point of his nose against it, slow and exploratory. Harry's breath catches, and Tom thinks, idly, that he would like to taste that breath. Every part where he and Harry touch sits heavy in his chest. His eyes slip closed. His nose traces the jut of Harry's jaw down to the heavy, unsteady pulse of his jugular, and he thinks about _biting_ it.

"Tom," Harry says, sounding strangled.

"Mmm," he murmurs, tightening his grip on Harry's waist before placing his lips squarely over the largest vein on his throat. He shudders, rocking slightly into Harry's warmth. Oh, to be able to replace those lips with _teeth_...

"Tom," Harry repeats, harsh, and it's the last warning he gets before he is being hauled up, blinking in confusion, and then warm lips crash down on his.

It's a hard, bruising kiss, desperate and sharp-edged, like walking on knives or Singing a sailor to his death, and presented with such passionate violence Tom comes _alive_. He kisses back with teeth and tongue, biting and licking into Harry's mouth, and Harry gives as good as he gets. It pleases him, makes his eyes light up as he slots their hips together and _grinds_ , and Harry moans, a bitten-off sound that precludes a fresh wave of aggression.

They push and shove until they reach the chaise lounge, and then Tom pushes him down to it and follows quickly after, bodies coming together with passion if not finesse. Half the buttons on Harry's shirt go, before hands bury themselves in his hair. Harry wastes a breath to laugh, to whisper, "I've been wanting to do that for ages," before Tom yanks his head back and closes his teeth over that lovely, warm pulse point, something in his ribcage going molten and utterly feral. 

He doesn't break skin, but Harry twists beneath him, wrenching their hips together. The movement lines up their groins, and the first rasp of friction is electric. Monumental. Tom groans, or Harry does—either way, it's swallowed up by their mouths; not kissing, but gasping the same harsh breaths. They grapple for a bit, play-wrestling as Tom sucks a string of bruises down his neck, then crawls back up to press into his mouth greedily. He scrapes his too-sharp teeth over Harry's bottom lip, soothes it with a gentle lick. Then he sheds his jacket and reaches for the fastenings on Harry's trousers.

"Wait," Harry says, grabbing his wrists, and Tom stills.

"We have time," he says, for all that he's flushed and his eyes are nearly black with desire. Tom can feel every word he's saying in his chest, like the rumble of distant thunder. "We can slow down."

Tom wants to protest, but then Slytherin's locket slips out from under his collar and comes to rest against Harry's chest, and the sight of the silver pendant against Harry's golden skin is so distractingly wonderful that something possessive and tender and yearning erupts in his chest.

"Fine," he says, and bends again to capture Harry's soft, full lips before he can say anymore, like attempt to set boundaries or something.

Tom loses track of time after that. They kiss for a long while, nothing but the slick slide of lips, teasingly gentle. He's been cold all his life, but now he's warm everywhere Harry's touching, as if he's sitting beneath a small sun. Basking in it. He permits Harry to roll them both over so that he's on top. Harry cards his fingers through his hair, and the gentle pressure of his fingers on his scalp is so pleasant that Tom butts into it.

Harry laughs. "You're like a cat, do you know that? A great big cat."

Tom huffs. "You're messing up my hair," he complains, but he makes no move to budge.

Harry rubs his thumb across Tom's cheek and leans down again. The very air seems honeyed, sweet and slow and golden, and in the fading light they rut lazily against each other, poised just on the edge of something more.

#

Eventually they have to get up and tidy themselves up for dinner. Today they are eating with the king and queen, and have to dress a little more formally. Harry catches him on the landing on the second floor and, under the guise of fixing his cravat, steals a kiss. 

_Little thief,_ Tom thinks, fond. 

There is a new chef in the kitchen, which Tom realises when he seats himself at his regular place at the table—next to Harry—and finds that all the eating utensils have changed.

"What's going on?" he asks.

"A surprise," Harry grins, eyes widening dramatically. He brushes a hand across Tom's shoulder as if picking off a stray bit lint, still smiling, although Tom is fairly sure his clothing is immaculate.

Dinner turns out to be utterly bewildering, utterly astonishing, ten-course meal. Seven of these courses are raw fish. Different types of raw fish, topped on a glossy white grain called rice, and eaten with two slender sticks.

"Or hands. Apparently you can eat with hands too."

 _Thank Merlin_ , Tom thinks, abandoning the chopsticks.

"What's this all about, Harry?" Lily Potter asks, poking at the appetiser, which is a leafy salad accompanied by a nutty, roasted sauce. It's very good.

"Well, it's something that Tom told me he eats in his native country, and when I heard that our chef knew someone who could prepare raw seafood, I thought we should invite him to the palace. I think Tom's probably homesick."

"I'm not," Tom protests, but it's half-hearted at best. The unexpected gesture has touched him, even if it isn't precisely what he meant when he lied to cover his tracks. But Harry had thought about him and thought to _surprise_ him, wanted to do something that would make him more comfortable, and it makes him feel a bit like the sea at the moment, wave-tossed and full of unknown things.

Tom thinks about Harry's offhanded, casual remark of a far-eastern style of cuisine, which Tom had been too humiliated to register. "Is this what you've been planning? Since that day?"

Harry grins, but before he can reply, the king interrupts.

"Well, it tastes good, and that's all that matters to me," King James says. "I hope you find this cuisine more to your tastes, Tom."

Tom inclines his head politely.

The meal is excellent. It's the closest to what Tom is familiar with, and even the rice, which he thought would be an unwelcome distraction, is the right texture and stickiness to complement the seafood. The raw fish, of which there are more types of than Tom has seen during his entire week here, is sometimes topped with savoury sauces and sometimes topped with grated, pickled things, that pop and melt in his mouth in equal measure.

Even more fascinating, some of the courses come with _seaweed_. But it is unlike any seaweed Tom has eaten, which is usually rubbery and turgid with moisture. This seaweed is crispy and crumbles into tiny flecks in his mouth.

Tom savours every bite.

Halfway through the meal, Harry switches over to eating with his non-dominant hand, slipping his right hand into Tom's left one. During dessert, his hand migrates to rest on Tom's thigh, a casually possessive touch, almost as if he needs to constantly reassure himself of Tom's presence. It makes him feel claimed, somehow. Conquered. 

He doesn't mind.

If the king or queen notice, they don't say a word, although Tom catches Lily smiling into her sorbet when she thinks no one is looking. 

Across the dining table, Ginny Weasley seethes. Her hand clenches on the tabletop, and she excuses herself before dessert. Her loss.

The chef emerges from the kitchens to greet them with a deep bow after the meal. He's a tanned, diminutive man, with smile lines around his eyes, which are the colour and shape of almonds. The king shakes his hand and the queen proffers hers to be kissed and Harry... Harry offers him a long-standing invitation to the palace.

And after dinner, Harry walks him to his rooms and lingers outside for long enough that Tom rolls his eyes and drags him in by the front of his shirt.

#

It's a small coterie that accompanies Tom and Harry to the pier. The party will start before sundown and last well into the wee hours, is what Tom has been told. Truth be told, he still hasn't decided if he'll stay for the entire duration. The entire day there was a strange, quiet tension between them, which kept him on his toes—a human turn-of-phrase! Who would have thought?—and before they set off the queen had taken him to one side to say cryptic things about caution and commitment. Tom had nodded and patted the hand resting on his arm, and bid her a good afternoon. Something almost like nostalgia stole over him then; if all goes as planned, he might not see her again.

He might not see any of this again.

The sun has just begun to set when they reach the quay. They step out to a balmy evening, and Tom is glad for his cream-coloured linen shirt. Beside him, Harry is looking particularly handsome in a light green jacket—probably anticipating the chill when night falls.

The quay is mostly empty, which seems unusual, but then Tom's breath is entirely stolen by the sight before him—Harry's ship, docked and strung up entirely with lights, primed for an event worthy of royalty, framed against the rosy warmth of the evening sky.

"How lovely," he says softly, feeling that twinge beneath his sternum. Doused in the golden veneer of twilight, it almost seems to glow softly. Above, he can hear the cry of the gulls, and when he tilts his head up, he can see a few of the deckhands hurrying along, probably setting up the finishing touches.

"Come on," Tom says, suddenly impatient, and he tugs on Harry's hand. He steps up the wooden plank and crosses to the hull with quick, light steps. Before him, the sea stretches out wide and infinite. 

He's so close.

"You like the sea, don't you?"

"I do," Tom admits, staring longingly at it.

"All aboard!" someone yells, and there is a splash before the ship starts forward.

"You and I are just alike, then," Harry confirms, over the growl of the engine, and Tom smiles at the bold truth of his words.

Standing on the deck of his great ship, limned by the sunlight and with the wind in his hair, against the backdrop of the crashing waves, Harry is heartrendingly beautiful, and thoroughly at ease. Tom can see why the Weasley girl was so quick to give herself up. He's so dashing, quick to laugh and with the kindest eyes. Every inch the prince charming.

But his kind don't believe in fairytales.

"We are," he agrees, leaning in to steal a kiss. Harry's mouth opens readily enough, eager, waiting. Wind gusts against them, tousling their hair out of place, and he brings one hand to cup the nape of Harry's neck. He places his other hand on the small of his back to press him closer, and his body almost seems to burn against Tom's.

Eventually he pulls away just an inch to take in their surroundings, and then he blinks.

"Where is everyone?" he asks, bewildered. Harry had promised a party, but aside from the crew, which have gone below-deck, there seems to be only the two of them.

Harry blushes. "Well," he says, "this is a celebration. But I also wanted to ask you something, and I thought you might prefer it if I asked you in private."

"In private?" Tom echoes.

"It's less pressure that way," Harry says.

And just as the sun kisses the horizon, he pulls out a ring.

Tom stares at him, at his earnest, sea-glass eyes, and then at the enormous, expensive stone. It's an emerald, carved with the Potter coat-of-arms and held in a gold claw setting, and Tom might not know much about human customs but even this he can appreciate the significance of.

He's speechless.

"Tom Riddle," Harry says, quiet and utterly sure. "I love you and want to spend my life with you. Will you marry me?"

Tom's mouth falls open. He feels as if he's been submerged in water—no, snatched out of the water, sudden and jarring, sprouted wings and been tossed into the air. The deck sways beneath his feet, and he feels entirely off-balance, as if the sky and the sea have swapped places and he hasn't the faintest where he belongs.

"Harry," he says, and then his throat locks up. He blinks back the inexplicable moisture in his eyes. He wraps his fingers around Harry's, and then presses the fingers closed over the ring.

"Darling, you barely know me," he whispers, feeling capsized, thunderstruck. 

And so _guilty,_ especially when Harry stares at him, his expression full of dawning hurt, aghast, as if he didn't really believe Tom would reject him. It makes something in Tom's chest go seismic, and he squeezes Harry's hand, desperate to convey his regret.

"So that's a no, then?" he asks, resigned.

"No!" Tom shakes his head, adamant. "It's not a no, it's just—it's not even been a week."

"But this feels _right_ , Tom," Harry argues, urgent and unhappy. "Tell me this doesn't feel right to you. We could be so _good_ together."

In another life, in another world, Tom would be the one begging Harry to join him, but in this one... Tom shakes his head again. 

"I'm not saying no," he says, and again he's struck by the unexpected truth of it. He doesn't want to give Harry up. Not now, possibly not ever. "But I need... I need time. Can you give me that?"

Harry's gaze on him is searching, piercingly so, and Tom submits to it, lets Harry hear the sincerity in his voice.

"Alright," he says at last. He makes to tucks the ring away, and Tom relaxes, feeling relieved and strangely disappointed. "I'm sorry for springing that on you."

"That's alright," Tom says smoothly. He presses a kiss to Harry's knuckles, stretched tight where they're closed over the ring. The sun begins to dip beneath the horizon.

"Wow, I kind of ruined the night, huh?"

"Not at all. I like being with you. Let's just have a good time anyway, shall we?"

Harry smiles, and though it starts out weak, it gets stronger. He squares his shoulders, puts his chin up. 

"Yes, you're right." He grins, bumps Tom's shoulder with his to show no hard feelings. Tom suddenly wants to kiss him again, to press his meaning into his mouth where words won't suffice. There are still too many secrets Tom's keeping, but he wants—he _wants_ —

"I want you to have this," he says. He keeps surprising himself tonight. With slightly shaky fingers, he reaches behind his neck to undo the locket's clasp.

"Your ancestor's locket," Harry says, shocked. "Tom, I can't."

"You can." Tom holds it up by the chain so that it glimmers. In the dying light, Slytherin's snake almost seems to come alive, its gemstone eyes glinting as if it knows just what Tom is thinking. "Please accept it as—as a token of my affection for you. And a promise that I will give your offer sincere thought."

Harry is still staring at him with disbelief. "This locket means a lot to you," he says carefully.

"And it would mean a lot to me for you to have it," Tom finishes, and finally, finally, Harry holds his hand out.

Tom takes a deep breath. It's fine. In less than two minutes the sun will fully set, and the Voice stored within will transfer fully to Tom. He lowers it slowly to Harry's open palm, and then hesitates.

"What's wrong?"

He briefly falters. "Would you turn around?" he asks.

"Of course," Harry says, smiling softly. He squeezes Tom's hand.

The last thing Tom remembers seeing is the strong line of his shoulder and the tanned curve of his neck, the light furring of hair. The sun, half-swallowed up by the horizon. And a flash of feathers. 

And then a seagull dives down and _rips_ the locket from his grasp.

#

Ginny Weasley hauls herself up onto the deck like a deranged sea creature. She's completely drenched, her red hair clinging unattractively to her freckled face like seaweed, her eyes blazing. Tom takes a step forward to shield her from Harry's sight. Somehow, she's made it all the way to the ship, probably with the help of her little fishy friends.

"Ginny," Harry says, trying for placating but missing by about a mile. He takes a step towards her, but she ignores him, flinging her hand in the air. Too late, Tom looks up. The seagull, the same seagull that's been dogging their footsteps the entire time, opens his beak and releases the locket, which tumbles—tumbles—

"No!" Tom roars.

The locket hits the deck with a horrible sound, and rolls to her feet.

Intact.

Tom breathes a sigh of relief.

And then Ginny Weasley raises a dagger with rubies encrusted along the handle, and brings it down.

The silver blade pierces the locket, and the locket jerks like a man drowning. Again and again, she stabs it. A horrible ringing sound, like something splintering, _shattering,_ echoes around them. Tom's mouth opens wide to issue a scream, but—

A golden wisp rises out of the locket, pulsing with life. Tom, Harry and Ginny stare at it, but only two of them know what the golden light is, and one of them lunges and snatches it up.

Ginny Weasley brings her hand to her mouth, triumphant, and in one gulp, swallows it.

"No," Tom says, but his Voice is gone.

" _No_ ," he mouths again, and rage starts to boil in his blood.

"He didn't save you," is the first thing Ginny says, her Voice raspy with disuse. Her eyes gleam, fever-bright. "From the storm. I did."

Tom's hands begin to shake, his face darkening. A cold gust of air lifts their hair.

"You?" Harry looks stunned. His eyes dart between her and Tom, whose mouth is still working ineffectually before he slams it shut.

"Yes. He's been trying to trick you."

"Trick me?" Harry echoes, his mouth going slack with bewilderment. His gaze returns to Tom. "Why would Tom trick me?"

"He wants to marry you!" she shouts, her voice gaining strength. "He's put you under a spell and intended to rob me of my Voice forever!"

 _Fool,_ he hisses, his mouth twisting into a snarl. _Lying, hypocritical little fool._ His hands clench into fists by his side. Fury scorches him, raw anger exploding like the breaching of a dam. Around them, the sea around them begins to churn, and for the first time Ginny's face is appropriately fearful.

"Tom?" Harry asks, uncertain and pleading in the face of Tom's uncanny silence.

 _Now you've done it,_ he thinks, brimming with a dark, violent fury. It throbs through him, making his magic roar to the surface, an unleashed wave. He stalks towards her, and Ginny begins to edge away.

"It's over, Tom," she's saying with her quivering Voice, and Tom thinks viciously that she's almost too pathetic and worthless to help him achieve his goals.

And then the horizon devours the last of the sun's rays.

_Time's up._

Ginny Weasley's legs suddenly snap together. Her entire body locks up, seizes, and then from beneath her soaked dress sprouts a set of foam-green caudal fins. She screams once, a high, sharp sound—the pain must be astronomical; Tom was not feeling particularly charitable when he mixed that potion—before going limp and crumpling onto the deck.

"Tom, wait," Harry says, just as Tom stalks forward. His body trembles with anger as he traps her skinny forearm in a vice-like grip. She cowers when she sees him, eyelashes fluttering. Tom bares all his teeth at her. His eyes flash red.

Then the sea erupts in a funnel of pitch-black water, and right before Tom dives in, he turns to look one last time at Harry. He stands alone on the deck, but there is no fear radiating from him. Only bewilderment and a deep, piercing concern. His green eyes catch and hold Tom's, obstinate, until Tom is the first to look away. 

What is there to say? I'll write, I'll visit? They're all patently untrue. Where Tom is going, Harry cannot follow.

And then with something like regret he's gone, slipping between one wave and next, dragging the girl after him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter was basically a love letter to japanese cuisine because i've got mad sushi cravings in lockdown, but also it's been a little headcanon of mine since the start. i did indeed check when the gramophone was invented - 1898 - and the little mermaid is set somewhere in the mid-1800s, so at most i'm off by about a handful of decades? ah well
> 
> the seagull is NEVILLE!!! HAHAHAHA thanks for coming to my ted talk, as always i welcome concrit & comments


	4. Chapter 4

The minute he touches the water his legs dissolve into sea foam. His senses sharpen, the world expands around him. As he sheds his raiment like moulted scales, his tail emerges long and sleek behind him. It undulates powerfully, propelling them deeper into the black.

Ginny Weasley alternates between crying and railing at him, but Tom won't let her go. He wards the area outside his caves and ignores her, for the most part. The loss of a Voice is a sore thing, but he savours the feeling of being back in his elegant, serpentine form, surrounded by water and in his element.

Until Dumbledore appears.

His heightened senses alert him to the elderly undine's arrival. Tom turns, and takes in the man's flashing blue eyes, the fierce swipe of his lavender tail through the water.

"Tom," he says, his voice nearly thundering. He wields his trident, the most powerful artefact under the sea and the reason for his nearly-unchecked power. Gone is the irritating twinkle in his eye. "What is the meaning of this?"

From a miniature whirlpool, Tom extracts a gleaming sheaf of waterproof parchment. He holds the contract out.

Dumbledore reads the contract, his eyes getting wider and wider. It's very simple, really.

_I, Ginny Weasley, hereby grant unto Tom Riddle, the Witch of the Sea, one Voice..._

... in exchange for one pair of legs. The transformation will become permanent if the prince kisses Ginny Weasley by sundown on the seventh day.

Which he didn't.

"He tricked me," Ginny spits. "He made me sign the contract and then he showed up to, to _sabotage_ me!"

Tom rolls his eyes. _Hardly,_ he mouths, and when Dumbledore raises a snow-white brow, he gestures impatiently to his own throat.

"Very well, Tom," he says softly, and then levels the trident at him. Tom nearly cringes—the last time he faced down the business end of that trident, things had not gone well for him—but he would rather die than give Dumbledore the satisfaction of such a reaction.

A blast of searing heat, and then when Tom opens his eyes, one of his eels swims closer, ribbon-like. Avery.

Avery curls himself around Tom's throat, and the contact shocks Tom just a little. Avery flaps his tail apologetically.

Tom makes to clear his throat, and the cough comes out of Avery's mouth.

Tom glares at Dumbledore. Even now, the sanctimonious bastard would refuse Tom his Voice. Even now, he would seek to _humiliate_ him. Shame and anger spread over him like an oil spill, dark and suffocating.

"This is only temporary, Tom," Dumbledore says, meaning to be reassuring, and Tom nods, and seethes internally.

No matter.

"Alright, then." He goes through all the motions of speaking, but the words spill from his eel's maw. "You can hardly blame me for the familial nature of the prince's feelings for you. You tried to kiss him, and he rejected you. That seems fairly straightforward."

"Only because you—you seduced him!"

Tom makes his eyes big, and then laughs. "Seduction implies intent, and I had no such intention."

"But it still happened, didn't it? He still—he still _proposed_."

"Trust me when I say I did not see that coming either. I turned him down. "

She blinks. "You did?" Even Dumbledore looks taken aback, but he stays silent, observing the argument evenly. Only a twitch of his tail betrays the old undine's agitation.

She recovers admirably quickly. "It was trickery," she insists, sniffling. "There's no way Harry could have fallen for you so quickly."

"Why not? Isn't that the same outcome you wanted for yourself?" Tom asks, challenging. His eyes flash, and Ginny's tail flicks, betraying her anxiety.

"Yes, but I'm, I'm not—I'm not _evil_."

"Ginny," Dumbledore says warningly.

"What? It's true! You should have seen him up there, charming the staff, wrapping the queen around his finger, acting like he belonged. It was Dark magic."

Tom scoffs. "You failed, so it must have been because I turned to the Dark Arts? Sure. And while we're at it, I would like to add that Harry and I barely spoke about you at all. Your failure is entirely your own." He bares his teeth, now pointed again. Predatory.

"Then unless further evidence comes to light that Tom did not act in good faith, it appears the contract was upheld," Dumbledore says, sounding weary. "And we are back where we started."

"On the contrary," Tom returns with venom, " _Ginny_ broke the contract when she thought to reclaim her Voice before the terms of the contract expired. But that Voice is rightfully _mine._ "

"It is not!" Ginny gasps, a freckled hand flying to her throat.

"It is. Read the contract carefully. Your Voice, in exchange for a pair of legs. And might I add that I was kind enough to give you functioning, shapely, _human legs?_ " Oh, to see Ginny with tentacles, or crab legs, or the flippers of a seal...

An undine can only dream.

"Yes, the _legs_ , which, as we can see, I no longer have!" She angrily waves her hand at her lower half.

"That's your problem. You gave me your Voice in consideration for the legs. Whether or not you _keep_ the legs is up to _you_." He swims over to her, sharklike. "Did you really think I would wager the price of our deal on the off-chance that you manage to convince a prince to fall in love with you in seven days? If you fail, I gain _nothing._ And why would I do that? So."

He holds out his hand.

Ginny gasps, outraged. She looks to Dumbledore, pleading.

"Tom," he says, and Tom shakes his head.

"A deal is a deal."

"Professor, you can't!" she says, shrill, edging away. Pathetic. Dumbledore looks angry, his blue eyes flashing. Tom knows he's always thought him manipulative and scheming, and now it seems he's proving him right.

"And then," Tom adds silkily, "There is the question of damages."

He holds up the warped, unsalvageable silver of the locket.

"She tore this open with a knife to steal _my_ —" his eyes flick over at Ginny, smug— "Voice. This locket belonged to Salazar Slytherin, and it is priceless. What say you, little Weasley? How will your family pay for this?"

Ginny goes white. Everyone knows the Weasleys are dirt-poor, with only their name to support them, almost as poor as Tom is. "Professor, I—I, I didn't know. I couldn't have known."

Tom laughs, cold and cruel, and to his eternal delight, Dumbledore flinches, his eyes darkening. He gives Tom a look of deep disgust, and he tries again.

"Is this what it'll always be, Tom? Some kind of tit for tat, some give-and-take that only you keep track of?"

Tom's nostrils flare, his fingers tightening by his side.

"No," he says, and his voice is barely above a snarl. Acid carves a hole in his gut. " _You_ take. And take and take. You've taken my Voice and my magic, my place in society, and any chance I might have had to make things better for myself. You take, not me."

For a long time there is only the faint disturbances in the water from the flutter of their gills. Ginny has gone all quiet, and even Dumbledore looks aged, resigned and weary.

Defeated.

Finally, he asks, "Well, what do you want for it, then?"

He sounds more tired than Tom has ever heard him, and Tom wonders fleetingly if he has finally come to regret the way he's mistreated him.

Tom looks at him, and then looks at his trident. His eyes lock on the three-pronged spear, glowing with magic, and he thinks of all the power, all the possibilities. Dumbledore's hand tightens, and his mouth becomes a hard, flat line. He's never trusted Tom, and Tom will show him, will show the rest of the Undersea, just who Tom is. What Tom can do.

He opens his mouth.

And then, for some inexplicable reason, bright green eyes enter his mind, warm in the glow of firelight. The words of a faraway prince come back to ask him, _Why would you give that up for something someone else has?_

He thinks of Dumbledore, of being _anything_ like him, old and closed off to power and the possibility of power, content in his knowledge and his complacency—and the revulsion that rises in him is so visceral as to be instinctive.

And Tom has always been good at following his instincts.

Suddenly, he thinks of paper and ink, of books, thousands of books in a distant library, and thousands—no, hundreds of thousands—more elsewhere. So much knowledge, so little time, and none of it in this part of the Undersea. None of it will be found amongst these small-minded people, content with their little lives and happy to pretend away their true natures, their true potential.

And he realises, _There's no space for me here._

So he says, "I want my Voice back. And then I want to be left alone."

Something sly passes over the old undine's face, and Tom snaps, "My _true_ Voice, the one you stole and hid from me because you were afraid. Afraid of me, afraid of my power."

"Where will you go, Tom?" Dumbledore asks, looking almost concerned. It could be genuine; he's always liked to be able to keep an eye on Tom, and who knows what Tom could get up to without Dumbledore peering over his shoulder at every turn? 

"Somewhere people won't shun me on one man's prejudice."

Dumbledore stares him down, and his blue eyes are as piercing as lightning. Tom has him in a corner, poor Ginny Weasley trapped between their battle of wills. There is judgement and cold recrimination in that gaze, and plenty of resignation too, and Tom is glad to be rid of it. 

"Very well, Tom. If that is your wish."

"It is."

Tom bares his teeth, watching intently as Dumbledore points his trident towards the castle. The burst of magic from the tip sends ripples arcing through the water. Presently, a bubble of golden light speeds towards them, and lands in his waiting palm.

"I hope this was worth it," Dumbledore says, trying to impart one last lesson, but Tom has already cracked the sphere like an egg, greedy with his impatience, magic humming insistently in the air between them, and downed its contents.

#

A dark head breaches the calm surface of the waves, rivulets of water running down slick curls. The head tilts, and then swivels from side to side. It appears to be waiting, searching for something.

It’s a good few kilometers from land, but he can just make out the highest turrets of the castle.

He ducks back under.

What would be the harm in seeing it one last time? Before he leaves forever. Just a small peek to remember what it was like to live on land for those few, surreal days. To live like a human.

And perhaps he might even see—

But no. Tom won't allow himself to entertain the possibility, vague and uncertain as it is. It's just that he left without saying goodbye, without any souvenir of his time there...

His Voice hums in his throat, almost vibrating with its rightful intensity, bold and fearless and true. He feels more right than he has in years, finally free and belonging entirely to himself. And all because some lovestruck guppy thought she could change nature.

Tom grins, razor-sharp, at the thought, as he spins in a circle. No one can see him now, his effervescent delight. He will travel to the farthest reaches of the oceans, where the Mariana trench meets the cool waters of the deep, to the craters that pump out hot, noxious gases, to the corners of all the seas—and any fool who can count will tell you there are more than seven.

He glances behind him, and then pulls up short. For once in his life he will be truly alone. He'd released Avery and Rosier and Abraxas from their service, and it's strange to look behind and not see their snaking shadows tailing him.

All alone.

He hesitates, then with a swish of his great tail he propels himself up.

When he re-emerges, he’s much closer to shore. It’s not safe to be so visible, but under cover of darkness, it’s a risk he’s willing to take.

It's not yet daybreak. Harry could be in bed, or on board his ship. Maybe he's not even in these waters anymore. Maybe he's already forgotten Tom. Or maybe the sight of something so inexplicable as the undine has caused him to go mad.

The possibilities are too many to count, so Tom doesn't bother. He swims slowly over to a large outcropping of rock and digs his fingers in, hauls himself close.

He watches, and he waits. Above him, the stars twinkle their last for the night.

Presently, a figure steps out onto the beach. His footsteps are heavy, but his chin is held high. By his side is a large black dog.

Harry.

Tom’s tail lashes against the water. There is a lump in his throat, a churning in his stomach like the waves before a storm.

Harry goes to a little wooden building and heaves out a rowboat. Muscles straining, bent double over its length, he pushes it across the sand until it touches the retreating waves, and is buoyed up.

It is coming to daybreak, the sky pinkening from navy to a dusky violet.

Tom keeps well beneath the wooden base of the boat, swimming wide, lazy circles around it as it makes its way out to the open waters. The oars sink rhythmically into the water, cutting through the currents like a hot knife through butter, propelling the little wooden contraption forward. He imagines Harry’s body taut with the strain, his form perfect. Daringly, he ghosts his splayed fingers against the wooden slats. How does it stay afloat? What is to stop it from overturning?

Above him, the dog barks and is quietened.

Eventually the oars cease their movement, and the boat is still aside from a gentle rocking on the waves. Tom swims out, puts distance between him and the boat, enough to be safe. He thinks of bows and arrows and of wild animals being stuffed and preserved and mounted on walls, and thinks about going even further out, or leaving completely, and then tells himself to stop procrastinating. He has his Voice back. He’ll be fine.

So why is his heart racing?

He lashes his tail against the water, once, irritated, and then propels himself to the surface.

It takes all of five seconds for Harry to notice him, and Tom dips his head beneath the water, just once, to calm down.

When he next appears, Harry is leaning so far to the edge of the boat that he’s almost in the water. He looks good, all lean and golden, eyes bright as gems despite the shadows beneath them. The boat teeters precariously, his elbows skimming the tops of the waves, and then rights itself.

The silence stretches between them, tenuous yet infinite, heavy with half-starts and unspoken things.

Finally, Harry speaks. “They caught the embezzler,” he says.

 _Oh?_ Tom drifts forward, curious despite himself. _Who—_

"Yeah. It was some lord. Malfoy, you won't know him, pointy git with blond hair,” he continues.

 _Wiltshire_ , Tom remembers, feeling satisfied. He wonders if the Malfoys have been rounded up, whether they will stand trial.

"He was using it to upkeep his manor. Buy exotic white peacocks. That's a genetic disorder, did you know? Albinism."

Tom stares at him. It’s not a word he’s familiar with, but under the sea, there are some creatures that have a very pale colouring. They’re the ones that live in the deep, far from the light, and are usually sightless.

“Can you speak?” Harry asks. He looks distressed, anxious, capsized even though Tom is the one in the water. In reply, Tom rolls his eyes.

“Yes,” he says, and _Salazar_ , does it feel strange to speak again, to feel the way his Voice thickens his vocal cords and gives him the power to Sing.

"Then why—why are you so far away? I'm not going to hurt you."

Suddenly, Tom realises he’s still allowing the waves to carry him forward, slowly but surely. He quickly corrects himself. Quietly, he says, "It's not safe to interact in this form. Your kind is often not so forgiving—"

"When you told me "your kind" was slang, that was a lie, wasn't it?" Harry asks, sharp as bone-knife.

Tom stops moving altogether. His throat is suddenly dry, a hard knot curled up behind his larynx.

He coughs, and tries again. "Humans are often brutal to creatures that are different from them.”

"I swear I won't,” Harry says, and there’s a fierce, miserable light in his eyes. “I swear on—on my mother's head. Come closer, please."

 _I must be a fool,_ Tom thinks. But he misses Harry so, missed his careless, carefree laugh, the way he was kind from the very first, the way he did everything in his power to make Tom feel at home.

He wants, more than anything, to touch him, and Harry _did_ ask... His tail arcs smoothly as he draws close.

"So you do have a tail."

"Indeed I do."

"I wasn't sure," Harry says, laughing softly and a little desperate. "I thought maybe I hallucinated it. I thought I hallucinated all of it."

Tom frowns, and then rolls his eyes. As if Harry could hallucinate something so fantastical.

“How is it that you can speak?” he asks, and Tom cuts him off before he can go further.

“It’s been dealt with,” he says, and hopes that Harry won’t press for more answers. It’s complicated, explaining his own fraught history with undine society, tempestuous as the sea at her most fickle.

“The girl—did you really take her voice?”

Tom sighs. “She _traded_ it to me—because of you, actually. She wanted the chance to walk on land, to talk to you after rescuing you. The Voice was mine, fair and square.”

“Is that how you’re still speaking?”

Ah, speaking. Tom grins; he can’t help it, can’t help the wild exuberance he feels every time he thinks about his Voice. So many years of toil and struggle after that last humiliation… the pain and the disgrace… he had been practically crippled…

“No,” he whispers, and his Voice rings true, filling the air with a rich, throaty hum, like hundreds of voices blending together. “This is mine own Voice. Mine own Voice, which was stolen from me when I was little more than a babe."

Harry nods slowly. “How does it feel to have it back?”

If possible, Tom’s smile grows even wider. “Good,” he breathes, his eyes fluttering shut. He tilts his head to the side, stroking the place where the word reverberates. “More right than I have felt in years.”

“I’m glad,” Harry says, and Tom darts forward with nary a splash, silent and deadly. His fingers find purchase in the side of the boat and dig in, and with his tail he hauls himself up, up, _up_ —

And then they’re face-to-face, the additional height forcing Harry to look up at him over the tops of his glasses. This close, Tom is struck with a fierce pang of longing, and Harry’s salty-clean smell and unbelievable bedhead.

“Are you?” he asks, dangerously soft.

Harry swallows, and Tom’s gaze jerks down to his mouth.

Is it possible that there was some unseen magic there, that afternoon in the lofty room filled with dusty books, when they swayed to invisible music—some alchemy of saliva? How else to account for the change being wrought in him, the persistent, inexplicable yearning clawing in his throat?

“I trust you,” Harry says, barely audible, and a tremor passes through Tom. He releases his grip, and without the leverage, sinks back into the water.

“Good,” he says. He feels odd, like he’s put his hand too close to the fire and for the split second the warmth turned searing. He should hate it, but it’s only unsettling. The urge to touch is still there, like a fishing hook in his mouth.

“What will you do now?” Harry asks, while Tom continues to gaze at him, feeling strangely heated. He shakes his head, and props it up on his folded arms.

“You were right,” he says almost musingly.

"I'm right about many things," Harry says. "You'll have to be more specific."

Ah, this is the Harry he remembers. A little mocking, a little snide.

"When it came down to it,” Tom says, thinking about Dumbledore levelling his trident at him, three deadly-sharp prongs pointed in his direction, “I didn't want to give up what I had for what someone else has."

“Even if you can do a better job?” Harry asks, curious and with just a touch of cheek.

The corner of Tom’s mouth quirks upwards. “Even then.”

Harry exhales quickly, and then leans close. “So what _do_ you want to do?”

And that’s the million-Galleon question, isn’t it? What _does_ Tom want to do? He wants to swim where no other undine dares, wants to gaze upon what the weaklings in the Undersea would never dare to. He wants to make a name for himself. He wants to be _great_.

“Research,” he says, inadequately. “Explore.”

And those aren’t the right words, but Harry’s eyes flash with understanding and humour, and he says, “And protect, too?”

To which Tom can only shrug.

"Sounds like a plan," Harry says, his eyes dancing. "Whoever gave you the idea sounds like an interesting person."

Tom laughs, and Harry smiles too, and for a moment the desire to touch him is so strong Tom is nearly blinded by it.

The smile suddenly dims, like a candle caught in a draft. With a twist of his mouth, he asks, “When you said you wanted some time to think... You never really intended to, did you?"

Tom is suddenly so, so cold. He turns his head ever-so-slightly to the side. _No._

“What else did you lie about?” he asks, and there’s something terrible about the set of his mouth.

“As little as possible,” Tom replies, because he owes him this much.

“What?”

“I lied to you as little as possible, and only about what was necessary. I didn’t intend to; I just wanted to keep an eye on the Weasley girl, on the deal I had made; and when you’re pretending, when you’re playing a role, it’s easiest to mainly tell the truth.”

“Oh,” Harry says, looking taken aback.

Tom’s said too much; the ghosts of the words teem in his throat, uncomfortably heavy.

He watches several emotions pass over Harry’s face, all of them too quick for Tom to comprehend, none of them looking particularly positive.

At last he smiles, and Tom relaxes.

“Maybe you could come and visit sometime,” he says, and his tone is deliberately light. He raises a finger and takes on an arch tone. “After all, the explorer who will not come back or send back his ships is not an explorer, only an adventurer.”

Tom wrinkles his nose in disgust. _Adventurer?_ And then his brain circles back to the first part, and he blurts out, “You still want to see me?”

“Yes, of course,” Harry says, looking at him like it should be obvious. Tom’s stomach clenches with a visceral stab of hope.

What does Harry want with him anyway? Tom has been on his own for years. He barely tolerates people; he is isolated and mean and scheming.

“You forget the sea is _my_ domain,” he says, just to be contrary, because even though the idea of chancing upon Harry on the open waters is an appealing one, there’s something to be said about being on land, a complete outsider masquerading around on two legs.

"Stop by anyway; you know you're always welcome at Godric's Hollow."

“Maybe,” Tom concedes, and Harry brightens.

“Can I see your tail?” he asks, and Tom smiles. He was expecting this.

He parts his lip and his Song swells like a great balloon in his chest, pushing up and out against his ribcage, and with a sensation like stretching an arm, like flexing a muscle, the waves lift him up.

He lounges, supine, on a shelf of water that’s level with the rim of the boat. His tail is long, much longer than his legs, a magnificent, powerful thing, and it curls lazily in the air.

Harry is gratifyingly awestruck. His hands stroke down over the place where Tom’s torso melts into iridescent scales, which glitter faintly in the morning light, like polished obsidian stones. In the centre is one strange little scale, moon-pale and silvery, breaking up the black inkspill of his tail; an aberration that Tom likes.

He rolls onto his stomach, half draped over the side of the boat, showing off his dorsal fin, smiling indulgently when Harry runs his fingers through the gossamer arch.

"I didn't think you'd come back," he murmurs, fingers gently passing over the glistening surface, the plume of his pelvic fins, which rest just beneath the bones of his hips.

"I turned it down," Tom says suddenly, and feels a shiver run over him again. His tail lashes in the air, dipping down to trail in the water.

Harry raises an eyebrow.

"I turned down power—power that I've worked hard to attain—so that I could follow my own path." In one bold move, Tom rewrote his future. It will be a long time before he can go back; no doubt, tales of his devilry are spreading like wildfire in the Undersea.

"That's great, Tom," he says softly.

Tom shakes his head to dislodge the troubling thoughts. "Was it the wrong choice?"

"No, power is what you make of it. You'll be great all by yourself, I know it." And the smile he flashes him is so warm and handsome; Tom would kill for that smile.

Suddenly the big black dog—Tom had almost forgotten he was there, so still was he—lunges forward and licks the saltwater trickling down Tom’s hand, and Tom gives an unbecoming yelp, the tide collapsing and tossing him back into the ocean. He flings his poor hand into the water, and Harry laughs and laughs.

Reluctantly, Tom strokes the dog’s snout, and it does not snap at him or bare its teeth, so Tom continues the motion, scratching between his ears and smoothing his fingers over the healthy pelt.

"Amazing how you managed to fold all of that into a pair of legs," Harry says, looking almost wistful, and Tom can’t help how he preens under his attention, singular and bright as the sun.

“It was just a bit of magic,” he demurs.

"Oh, magic eh? Just a little extra that merpeople can do too?"

"Undine," Tom corrects. "But only I am strong enough for this type of spell."

"Undine," he repeats, and Tom nods with pleasure to see the correct terminology roll off his tongue.

"We have Voices, and with our Voices we can direct the magic in our veins to whatever we want, through Song. We Sing the waves, or perhaps the waves Sing us. It is in our blood."

Harry narrows his eyes. "Ah, so all the stories about sailors being Sung to their watery deaths... not a myth, then?"

Humans and their silly stories. "I can't say."

"How much _can_ you say?"

"I probably shouldn't even being saying any of this." Not that Tom gives a damn.

"And yet, here you are."

"Here I am,” he agrees, pleased.

"Breaking hundreds of rules just to talk to little ol' me."

"Just the one, really. But the most important one, yes."

They smile at each other, and suddenly Tom’s mouth is dry again, his chest full of an unfamiliar, winged thing, beating against his ribs.

“Can you ever forgive me?” he chokes out, almost inaudible.

And at the same time, Harry blurts out, “Stay.”

“What?” Tom says.

“What?” Harry says.

But Tom folds his arms across his chest, obstinate, and raises one eyebrow in blatant challenge. After scowling at him for a good half a minute, Harry relents.

“Father said I could continue my research, if I wanted,” he says, and there is a fervent hope in his voice. “There's still time before I succeed him, and—I just thought—it wouldn’t be a terrible idea for us to— _launchourexpeditionstogether_.”

Tom stares at him. “You still want to be with me?" he demands. "Even now, seeing what I am? Knowing that I lied to you the whole time we were together? You still want to—"

“Yes,” Harry says simply, like it’s the easiest thing in the world to be honest. Tom can’t tear his eyes away from him, this bewildering, wonderful creature. Tom can never tell what he's thinking, can never predict what he's going to do. He's constantly surprising him. 

“I’m sorry.” He hasn’t apologised sincerely in well over a decade; the word sits uncomfortably in his mouth.

“What for?”

“For telling you to wait when I didn’t think there was any possible way for us to be together.”

Harry lifts a shoulder, and the curve of his mouth is sad and a little wry. “It’s alright.”

“It _isn’t_ alright. It wasn't meant to be a lie—or a rejection—not to me. It was a mistake, and I don't make the same mistake twice.”

“What are you saying? That you wanted to be with me?"

“That I _want_ to be with you,” he emphasises, tugging on his hair with frustration, and finally understanding sparks in Harry’s eyes, like flint to tinder.

"You came back," he whispers, and his hand flies to his coat pocket. Tom narrows his eyes, and files that away for later.

"I did."

"I didn't think you would."

"And you came out onto a boat to find me anyway," Tom points out.

"I did. And you showed up."

"Because I couldn't stay away."

Harry’s lips start to part in a smile, exposing his lovely white teeth. "It wasn't a lie, was it? You do want to see me, even if you don't want to stay."

"I do want to stay. It’s the most unexpected thing; are you sure you don't have magic?"

The slow smile evolves into a proper grin, the brightest and most beautiful that Tom has ever seen on any living creature. Harry laughs. "Sure as rain."

"That makes no sense. Really? No bewitchment? No ensorcellment?"

"Really," Harry insists, still chuckling, and Tom feels the thing in his chest take flight, fluttering up his throat. His stomach quivers, and he feels reckless with it.

Today seems to be a day for bold moves, doesn’t it?

"Help me up," he orders, throwing out a hand.

Harry braces himself on his knees to keep his balance, and he grabs onto Tom’s hand, looking confused but still eager. His palm is calloused and slightly sweaty and utterly beloved.

And Tom closes his eyes and feels magic well up in him like an unchecked wave. He breathes deeply, pushing the air down, and begins to Sing.

His Voice is louder and purer than he’s ever heard it, ringing almost percussively. It feels almost like the entire ocean is standing at attention, waiting for his command, the very waves listening to him. Like cold water has been poured over him, a shivery-good sensation skitters down his throat, his torso, his abdomen.

Blindly, he reaches out for the boat, and when his hand closes around weathered wood, he yanks his body up, holding that single bright note for as long as he can.

Behind his eyelids, the world explodes into dizzying gold.

When he blinks the stars away, he topples over—thankfully inside the boat, because Tom isn’t sure he knows how to swim with only a pair of legs.

He flexes what used to be his caudal fins, getting used to the sensation of having two limbs instead of one. They still tingle from being split from the enormous column of his tail, like he’s swum past a bed of coral.

"Pass me your coat, won't you?" he says, reaching over to gently lift Harry's jaw shut.

Harry reaches behind him without looking, fumbling until his hand touches fabric. His eyes are enormous in his face, fixed onto his legs. His toes scrunch against the sandy wooden floor of the boat at the attention. He’s clutching Tom’s hand, almost too tight, and Tom uses it to pull him in. His fingers stroke over the tender skin on Harry’s wrist.

“You’ll have to blink eventually,” he says, pulling the coat close around him, and the command and the sudden closeness make Harry obey.

“You—you’re really staying,” he breathes, still staring so hard that Tom starts to wonder if maybe he magicked the wrong pair into existence. He checks—no, it’s the same one as last time, complete with slightly too-high arches.

He nods, hiding his smile by brushing his lips over the pulse point. “How you’ve changed me,” he murmurs, still incredulous, still so lucky to be sitting here, dripping wet, in a coat that’s littered with dog fur.

“Say it,” Harry insists, but he’s smiling too.

“To see the snow and drink mulled wine and eat roast venison?” Then Harry flips Tom’s hands over in his, to press a kiss to his palm, and for a while Tom is robbed of speech again. Then, “As if I’d let you have all the fun.”

“You’ll love it,” Harry promises, and Tom takes his sweet, sweet face in his hands.

"Then that's all that matters,” he says. Harry’s face splits into a radiant smile, and finally, finally, Tom brings their lips together, burying his fingers into messy hair, tasting the sea and the open air and vast, blue freedom. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... i originally meant for this chapter to be in harry's pov so that i could describe tom's undine features, but then literally 2 nights before i was slated to post my brain suddenly said "HEY REMEMBER THAT ENDING YOU'VE BEEN WORKING ON...? YEAH, TAKE IT AGAIN FROM THE TOP THIS TIME WITH (tom's) _FEELING_ (s)". so thanks to that curve ball i ended up rewriting everything. sorry.
> 
> harry's pov of this final chapter will be up next week. the quote about adventurers and explorers is from 'the dispossessed' by ursula k. le guin
> 
> this is also the softest tom riddle i've ever written so in my next 2 aus tom will be 1) a conquering warlord 2) satan. thank u and goodnight


	5. Chapter 5

Harry retrieves Padfoot from the kennels, lets him snuffle at his pockets and lick his hands. The black dog whines, sympathetic, as though he senses that something is bothering his master. Outside, it's not yet daybreak. The sky is pale and cloudless, barely a glow in the horizon.

They cross the length of the beach in under an hour, as they have the past six times, and then Harry goes to the boat-shed and pulls the tarp off a little wooden rowboat.

It's foolish, he knows, even as he tugs it over to the shoreline. Tom could be anywhere by now; there are no borders under the sea as there are on land. The possibilities are endless, and to contemplate how long the odds are of ever seeing him is—

Look at him, trying to track Tom as if he's nothing but a wild creature. Tom may not be human, but he's more intelligent than Harry, more intelligent than possibly all the residents of Godric's Hollow combined. Why would he linger?

 _So maybe I've finally gone mad,_ he thinks, as he rows out to the vicinity of where their boat was anchored, before everything went to hell.

Opposite him, Padfoot pants.

They hadn't gone far that evening, but it's certainly a great enough distance from the coastline to give him a proper workout. In no time, he has his sleeves rolled up to his biceps, with no room in his mind for anything other than the strain of his muscles, the burn in his limbs. Sweat trickles down his temples.

He stops rowing at the approximate point that Tom vanished beneath the waves. He is a good few kilometres from land, where he can just about make out the highest turrets of the castle. The boat rocks gently against the tide. In his knapsack there is a loaf of bread and a hunk of hard cheese and an apple. Some dog treats. A paperback.

And the Peverell heirloom, the ring he intended to propose with. Because he is a hopeless romantic and an eternal optimist and a masochist, above all.

He takes the paperback out and sets it aside; he's in no mood to read. Padfoot barks once, and Harry shushes him. Huffing, he rests his canine head on Harry's knee.

At this very moment, Tom could be travelling to the farthest reaches of the oceans, and the thought of him being so impossibly far away makes Harry's chest squeeze as if it could collapse on itself. What does he even know about Tom, really, aside from what Tom has said? Is he really a healer? Is he descended from nobility? Where is his family, who are his friends? Does he have—here Harry swallows, hard, his hands clenching in Padfoot's fur—a lover?

What do mermaids even care for a human practice like marriage anyway?

He swallows heavily, blinking. Padfoot noses deeper into the crook between his neck and shoulder, and he's grateful to have something to cling to.

Perhaps what he needs is to get away from it all. He could head over to the Burrow and thrash it out with Ron over a game of chess. Or better yet, football. Hermione would probably want him to talk about his feelings, though—that could either go really well or really badly. He thinks about her smacking him over the head with a rolled-up newspaper and winces.

The sky is lightening. He can just about see the pale semi-circle of the moon, and the faintest trace of the last constellations to fade. In a few minutes Harry will take out some of the bread and cheese to eat.

It won't be like this forever, he tells himself. Eventually you'll forget him. But when he tries to visualise a future without Tom by his side, it looks dull, as if all the colour has been bleached under the sun.

Nothing will be as vibrant or indelible as his absent friend.

Suddenly, Padfoot shifts and barks, loud and right next to Harry's ear. He jerks away, and this time he sees a dark head retreat quickly back into the shadowy waters.

"Tom," he whispers, lightning-struck.

His chin dips beneath the surface of the water, dark blue swallowing up his cheeks and nose until all that remains is a pair of gleaming dark eyes, set into a handsome face, pale as the moon. They lock gazes, and time freezes around him.

It's him. He _knows_ it's him.

"Tom!" He scrambles over to the lip of the rowboat, breathing manically hard. The boat overbalances and nearly tips him into the water.

For a horrifying second, the dark head dips beneath the waves, and Harry's heart slams against his ribcage so violently it feels like it could tear out of his chest. _If Tom vanishes again... if he loses this chance..._

His head breaches the surface, rivulets of water running down sleek black curls. He's still a good three metres away. It could be the span of the entire Atlantic Ocean, for all Harry's ability to breach the distance.

He swallows and forces himself to sit back on his haunches, and at his leaning away, Tom seems to relax. He drifts a little closer, head and shoulders bobbing slightly. Harry's grip on the oars is sweaty, so he tucks them to one side.

_It's him. Good Godric, it's really him._

They stare at each other. For a long time, there is only the shushing whisper of waves lapping against the rowboat. His jaw works, but he's unable to produce a single sound. Padfoot's ears are pricked up. So are Harry's.

"They caught the embezzler," he says at last, his voice raspy.

Tom raises his brows, intrigued. He swims imperceptibly closer.

"Yeah. It was some lord. Malfoy, you won't know him, pointy git with blond hair."

He glides soundlessly forward. There is a flicker of recognition in his abyssal gaze.

"He was using it to upkeep his manor. Buy exotic white peacocks. That's a genetic disorder, did you know? Albinism."

Dark eyes bore into his, cold and inscrutable.

"Can you speak?" he whispers, hoarse. He swallows around the frantic lump in his throat.

A roll of the eyes. Light reflects off them, as if mirrors sit just beneath the dark irises. He's even closer now; there's a shimmer of scales down the sides of Tom's face, framing his lovely features. "Yes."

"Then why—why are you so far away? I'm not going to hurt you."

The water ripples against the tide, as if something under the surface just shifted. "It's not safe to interact in this form. Your kind is often not so forgiving—"

"You were lying when you told me 'your kind' was slang, weren't you?" 

Harry regrets the interruption almost as soon as it leaves his mouth, because Tom stops drawing closer, but he couldn't help it. There's still so much confusion and hurt welling up inside him like a fresh wound, and he can't stop picking at it like a scab. It was bound to come out eventually.

"Humans are often brutal to creatures that are different from them," Tom continues, but it's soft. Almost apologetic.

"I swear I won't. I swear it on my mother's head. Come closer, please."

Eventually he does, with a powerful undulation that sends ripples arcing underwater, which can only mean—

"So you _do_ have a tail."

"Indeed I do."

"I wasn't sure," he says, laughing. He feels off-kilter. "I thought maybe I hallucinated it. I thought I hallucinated all of it."

Tom rolls his eyes again; the familiar gesture makes Harry feel heavy with longing. Tom has always been magnetic, mesmerising to look at, but now there's something... _elemental_ about him.

"How is it that you can speak? I saw—"

"It's been dealt with," he says, as smooth and cool as scales. He still hasn't come any closer to the boat.

"The girl—did you really take her voice?"

Tom's sigh is laced with irritation. "She traded it to me—because of you, actually." He pretends to inspect his nails—it's a terribly human action.

"Me?"

"She wanted the chance to walk on land, to talk to you after rescuing you." Here, his tone hardens. There's a defensive tilt to his chin. "That Voice was mine, fair and square."

"Is that how you're still speaking?"

And for the first time, Tom smiles, and his teeth are sharper and pointier than Harry remembers.

Harry couldn't care less about the absence of humanity in that smile. Tom is a scant metre away now, and he's sitting on his palms so that he doesn't reach out and scare him away like a skittish fawn.

"No," Tom whispers, and his voice takes on an eerie, overtone hum. The very sea seems to fall into a hush, listening, waiting. It makes the fine hairs on Harry's arms stand. "This is mine own Voice. Mine own Voice, which was stolen from me when I was little more than a babe."

"How does it feel to have it back?"

"Good," Tom says definitively. He lays a hand over the hollow at the base of his throat, right beside the petal-pink flare of his gills, cocking his head as if tuning in to some otherworldly sense. "More right than I have felt in years."

"I'm glad," Harry breathes, and he is. Tom deserves every good and pure thing in the world.

Suddenly Tom surges forward. His fingers lock around the wooden lip of the boat, and he pulls himself close, smooth and sure as a loosed arrow. With his upper body strength, he hauls himself up so that they're face-to-face.

Water streams down his lean, bare chest, the muscles on his abdomen flexing attractively, and the boat tilts dangerously as Tom brings his face very close to Harry's—his face, which is more regal and haughty than Harry's could ever hope to be, even with his blue-blooded lineage. Harry swallows.

"Are you?" he murmurs, his eyes darting down. Suddenly Harry is all too aware of his breath, his disheveled hair, the sleep-dirt in the creases of his eyes, Padfoot standing at attention by his feet, wary but immobile. And the distance between their mouths. It's been two days since they last kissed, three since—

Harry bites down on his bottom lip, and the weight of his teeth is a pale imitation. His mouth burns from Tom's kiss, tender and pink. He thinks of Tom, of drowning and flying. The world tilting on its axis.

"I—"

Harry is certain that something ominous happened in the time that they were apart. Something dangerous, probably. How can he explain just how little that means to him?

The way Tom's eyes rove over his form is flattering, at least.

"I trust you," he says, in a low, confessional voice. He trusts Tom against all his better judgement.

Tom jerks away, then, sinking a little in the process. Something like surprise flickers across his gaze, which loses some of his stoniness.

"Good," he says. He looks at him with eyes dark as rain-clouds. There's something newly bold about him now; but of course, it can't hurt to possess the certainty that if Harry tried anything, he would need only to wave a hand to toss him overboard, and kill him either by drowning or suffocating him under the sheer weight of the ocean.

Harry forces himself to exhale and unclench his hands. The urge to touch Tom is stronger than ever.

"So," he says after clearing his throat. "What will you do now, then?"

Tom hums, folding his arms over the rim of the boat and resting his head on them. He looks like an oil painting by one of the Old Masters, enigmatic and divine, as though there should be olive leaves woven into his curls. He peers up at Harry, his gaze lidded.

"You were right," he says idly.

"I'm right about many things," Harry inserts. He's regaining some of his composure now that there's some distance between them. "You'll have to be more specific."

A fleeting, pensive smile. "When it came down to it, I didn't want to give up what I had for what someone else has."

"Even if you can do a better job?"

The smile widens, showing a flash of teeth. "Even then."

"So what _do_ you want to do?" He's sincerely curious.

"Research. Explore."

"And protect?" Harry asks, remembering their conversation.

Tom makes a non-committal gesture.

"Sounds like a plan," Harry says. He taps his chin with his index finger, pretending to think. "Whoever gave you the idea sounds like an interesting person."

Tom huffs a laugh, and Harry beams, warmth blooming in his chest.

Then his smile dims. Falteringly, he asks, "When you said you wanted some time to think... You never really intended to, did you?"

Tom gives him a long look, and then shakes his head slowly.

Harry's heart sinks. It hurts, behind his eyes, in the back of his throat, in the pit of his stomach. He knew it, and yet there's no accounting for the way his heart seizes like a dying animal.

"What else did you lie about?"

It's all dissolving around him, the lush magic of their acquaintanceship, the sweet ripeness of possibility. He stares at him, the beautiful creature before him, and can't bring himself to beg. Because he loves Tom like he loves a whipping breeze, choppy waters, the smell of sea salt.

"As little as possible," Tom says, surprising him.

"What?"

Tom looks away, and then back at him. He squares his shoulders. "I lied to you as little as possible, and only what was necessary. I didn't intend to; I just wanted to keep an eye on the Weasley girl, on the deal I had made, and when you're pretending, when you're playing a role, it's easiest to mainly tell the truth."

"Oh."

It's a lot to take in, to slowly parse truth from untruth when the hurt of it still throbs like a bruise he can't stop pressing down on. But there will be time enough for that later. For now, he forces a smile, forces levity into his tone.

"Well, maybe you'll come and visit sometime," he remarks, dropping one eyelid in a playful wink, and it's appropriately light-hearted, as much diplomatic charm as he can muster. "After all, the explorer who will not come back or send back his ships is not an explorer, only an adventurer."

Tom's expression is all childlike disgust, and Harry can't help the way his smile widens, becomes fond and genuine. Tom has always had such high-minded ideals. He turns his nose up at the idea of _adventuring,_ and the way the sunlight catches on the glossy scales framing his cheekbones is nothing short of breathtaking.

Something flickers across his fine features.

"So you still want to see me?" Tom asks, too casual to be anything but serious.

It takes Harry aback, and for a long while there is only the quiet lash of his tail in the waves, because _how could Tom think any different?_

"Yes, of course," he says, quashing his stammer. He reaches out and closes his hand around Tom's wrist, rubbing his thumb across the blue ribboning of veins beneath skin so faint as to be nearly translucent. Tom makes a tiny, subvocal sound, eyelashes fluttering. Harry thinks he isn't even aware he's doing it.

Temporarily appeased, Tom says, "You forget the sea in _my_ domain, and if _you_ intend to keep sailing..."

"Stop by anyway; you know you're always welcome at Godric's Hollow."

"Maybe," Tom acquiesces, and Harry knows that's as good as he can hope to get. He wills it to be enough, even though less than forty-eight hours ago he wanted Tom to marry him, was still holding out hope that Tom would eventually say yes. Tom belongs to the sea. Harry has no right to pin him down, to ask him to stay. He hadn't wanted to phrase it like a question, in case Tom turned him down—or worse, lied.

His smile strains at the edges. He casts about for something to say, and lands on: "Can I see your tail?"

Tom's answering grin is proud and genuine. Using his arms for leverage against the side of the boat, he lifts his chest out of the water. His midriff follows soon after, and around his navel the skin becomes scattered and dense with scales.

Then Tom Sings again, an eerie, ethereal rumble. He arches a wrist, graceful and somehow proprietary, almost lazy, and the waves _surge_ forward. They crowd against the side of the boat and lift him up from the waist-down, and with a fantastic splash, Tom's tail makes itself known.

Tom unfurls the enormous column of his tail to where it terminates in his caudal fins, until they are spread out, fan-like, before Harry. Similarly, his pectoral and pelvic fins are delicate, pale curtains, like shining puffs of tangible clouds, seemingly made entirely of lace and gossamer threads. He brushes one such fin against Harry's forearm, almost coy, and Harry turns his hands palm-side up, and trails his fingers over it, and finds that it is waxy to the touch. His scales glitter blackly even in the morning light—save for one that could pass for the perfect shimmery interior of an oyster, such a stark contrast from the obsidian scales that it almost seems to glow.

"I didn't think you'd come back," he says, soft. He reaches out a hand, and Tom nods, some unnameable emotion swelling in his gaze as Harry places his hands on the sleek, shimmering surface. Tom rolls over, twisting, so that Harry can thread his fingers through the snowy flag of his dorsal fin, flared like a lady's handkerchief. Resting above it are three spines, which are held together by more fine, translucent skin.

Tom is the most resplendent, majestic creature he's ever seen. It hits him like a punch in the gut.

"I turned it down," Tom says suddenly, looking a little stunned.

Harry raises an eyebrow.

He almost seems to hunch in on himself. "I turned down power—power that I've worked hard to attain—so that I could follow my own path." There's an expression on his face that's halfway between disbelief and disgust.

"That's great, Tom," he says softly.

Tom shakes his head and peers up at him. His gaze gleams silver. "Was it the wrong choice?"

Harry blinks. He has never known Tom to doubt himself. "No," he says, decisively. "Power is what you make of it. You'll be great all by yourself, I know it."

For a long time he doesn't answer, looking lost in tumultuous thoughts. Harry stays silent, giving Tom the space he needs. His fingers caress the strong, sturdy tail; the other hand tugs on the gleaming plumage of his fins, and Tom inhales sharply.

It's a lovely sound.

At last Padfoot gets bored and licks Tom's dangling hand, dragging his slobbery tongue over salt skin, and breaks the spell.

Tom plunges his hand into the water with an expression of mild distaste, and Harry bursts into laughter.

"Amazing how you managed to fold all of that into a pair of legs," he marvels, misery temporarily abated, and Tom preens.

"It was just a little bit of magic," Tom replies, distracted, but the clouds are clearing from his gaze.

"Oh, magic, eh? Just a little extra that merpeople can do too?"

"Undine," Tom corrects, and it's so close to their usual banter that Harry's chest aches. It's surreal, conversing with him here; whenever Harry forgets himself, they fall back into conversation as if no time at all has passed. "But only I am powerful enough for this type of spell."

"Undine," he acknowledges, secretly pleased to hear Tom showing off. It's probably true anyway.

"We have Voices, and with our Voices we can direct the magic in our veins to whatever we want, through Song. We Sing the waves, or perhaps the waves Sing us. It is in our blood."

How fantastical all of this is. Harry shouldn't believe any of it, except the dreamy cast to Tom's gaze is more telling than any truth. "So all the stories about sailors being Sung to their deaths... not a myth, then?"

Tom smiles, mysterious. "I can't say."

"How much _can_ you say?"

"I probably shouldn't even being saying any of this."

"And yet, here you are."

"Here I am."

"Breaking hundreds of rules just to talk to little ol' me."

"Just the one, really. But the most important one, yes."

"Loose lips sink ships, I suppose."

Tom startles them both by laughing. "Do they really? But that makes hardly any sense!"

They smile at each other, just saying nothing for a few moment, and Tom's gaze is suddenly soft, impossibly soft, like Harry is something strange and precious, like a perfectly shaped conch shell or the best kind of sea breeze for sailing. It makes something him feel prickly and hot all over, shy in the way he's never felt shy before.

"Forgive me," Tom suddenly commands, but in such a low murmur that Harry completely misses it, because at the same time he blurts out, "Please stay," already hating himself but knowing he'll hate himself worse if he doesn't at least ask—if he doesn't just come out with it.

"What?"

"What?"

Tom crosses his arms, stubbornly raising his chin. Harry glares at him, as best as he can, but he can't sustain it. Not with the way he misses Tom, like a broken bone, helpless in the face of the consuming and mortifying thing swallowing him whole.

"Father said I could continue my research, if I wanted," he begrudgingly admits. "There's still time before I succeed him, and I was thinking that it wouldn't be a terrible idea for us to launch our expeditions together."

Grey eyes widen and narrow in a frown. Tom's tail flicks agitatedly, and then almost seems to curl around him. "You still want to be with me? Even now, seeing what I am? Knowing that I lied to you the whole time we walked together? You still want to—"

"Yes," Harry says, so unexpectedly cracked open and honest that something in Tom's gaze goes very warm, and Harry sinks into that gaze like the cocoon of an old and familiar blanket at the end of a long day.

Harry has never been the sort of person predisposed to romance or great loves. He just wants Tom to be around him, to keep making barbed witticisms and screwing his face up in disgust at every other person but him. He wants to clothe Tom in exquisite fabrics and bring him to see the fireworks on hot summer nights. He wants above all for Tom to stop looking at him like he's a stranger.

Then, like the flick of a switch, Tom seems to make up his mind about something.

"I'm sorry," he says. His gills flutter.

Harry blinks. "What for?"

"For telling you to wait when I didn't think there was any possible way for us to be together."

Harry deflates at his words. He shrugs. "It's alright."

"It _isn't_ alright," Tom says, insistent. "It wasn't meant to be a lie—or a rejection—not to me. It was a mistake, and I don't make the same mistake twice."

A furrow appears between Harry's brows. "What are you saying? That you wanted to be with me?"

"That I _want_ to be with you." Tom runs a hand through salt-tangled hair, and the emphasis is not lost on Harry.

"You came back," Harry says, in a hush, wondering, because it bears repeating, because he needs to hear it out loud.

Tom wants to be with him. He's here now. His eyes are vast like the ocean; they seem to contain the sun. Through his coat pocket, Harry fingers the ring.

"I did."

"I didn't think you would."

"And you came out onto a boat to find me anyway."

"I did. And you showed up."

"Because I couldn't stay away." Tom is staring at him, somehow both soft-eyed and intense, as though willing him to understand.

The most joyous smile breaks over Harry's face. "It wasn't a lie, was it? You do want to see me, even if you don't want to stay."

"But I _do_ want to stay." Tom looks momentarily irritated. "Are you sure you don't have magic?"

Harry laughs, eyes crinkling. "Sure as rain."

Tom wrinkles his nose. "That makes no sense either. Really? No bewitchment? No ensorcellment?"

"Really."

Tom smiles at him then, and it's realer and better than anything he's ever seen.

"Help me up," he says, reaching out a hand.

Harry crouches on the boat, half-kneeling and bracing himself against the wooden boards as he grabs onto Tom's hand, which is slippery with moisture.

With the other, Tom heaves himself up until he plants his torso on the lip of the boat, and then there is a blinding flash of light—

And instead of a tail, Tom is lifting a pair of long, lean legs inside.

"Pass me your coat, won't you?" he says, reaching over to gently tip Harry's jaw shut.

Numbly, he reaches behind him to grab his coat, which is hilariously short on Tom. Water drips from his damp curls onto the collar, and the dark material makes his skin almost luminous by contrast. He spreads his toes out, stretching, and then tucks his new limbs beneath him. 

"You're really staying," Harry marvels, dazed, his eyes bright with hope.

Tom's hands curve under his chin, cupping his cheek, and he murmurs, "How you have changed me, Harry Potter," and isn't that just the funniest thing, when Harry was having the exact same thought not ten minutes ago?

"Say it," he demands, but the corners of his mouth twitch up, stealing the ferocity from his words.

Tom's perfect, full mouth parts, his eyes taking on a look that might've been called dreamy if not for the hunger in them. "To see the snow and drink mulled wine and eat roast venison?"

Harry presses a soft, deliberate kiss to Tom's palm, and he immediately goes still, his face going slack as he stares at Harry curiously, like he's the most fascinating specimen under the sun.

"... As if I'd let you have all the fun," he finishes, his voice husky.

And Harry's face splits into a brilliant grin, ear-to-ear. "You'll love it," he promises, and he lets himself be pulled to the other side of the boat until he's basically sprawled in Tom's lap, parallel to the horizon where the sea touches the sky, their lips finally meeting, slotting together like the two halves of an oyster, uncleavable and achingly tender.

"Then that's all that matters."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the final chapter!!! at last!!! after three weeks of editing and realising that i'd written myself into a corner and cutting words like a maniac
> 
> i need a drink 
> 
> thank you to everyone who has stuck with me and with tom (and now harry) through this. thank you to everyone who has kudo'd and left comments and buoyed me up and made all this worthwhile. i hope you like this ending.
> 
> [tumblr](https://greenbriars.tumblr.com)


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